Chapter 8 THE VASE GETS ITS OWN DOG WALKER.

Breakfast proceeded with deceptive normalcy. Liam dropped my hand the second attention shifted to the old uncle's finances, but the heat of his fingers clung to my skin way longer than necessary. I rubbed the back of my hand under the table, irritated by my own physical reaction.

I was busy counting the steps between our chairs and the vase cart, calculating how long it would take to smash a window with a chair if I managed to snatch the loot, when Eleanor spoke again.

"Pipo, my precious boy, you are catching so much sun today," the matriarch said.

I thought she was talking to an actual dog hiding under the table. But no. Eleanor was stroking the ceramic snout of the pug on top of the urn with a devotion that churned my stomach.

"It is comforting to have him back in the family circuit," a distant cousin commented, raising her glass of orange juice.

"Absolutely," Eleanor agreed, tapping the metal of the urn. "I realized that leaving Pipo locked up in the museum makes him lose his shine. The salty island air will do him good. Starting today, I have instructed Winston that Pipo will join us in all our daytime activities. Afternoon tea in the garden, croquet, dinner. Family must stay united."

I choked on air.

I snapped my neck toward Liam so fast I almost gave myself whiplash. He stared back at me, his face pale and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Plan A was dead. Plan B, too.

We couldn't just sneak out at night and steal the vase from a static display case. Eleanor was going to cart that canine monstrosity around in broad daylight, surrounded by snobbish relatives, security guards, and a butler who looked like a retired hitman. The heist's difficulty level just multiplied by a thousand.

For a microsecond, the "Chloe and Arthur" masks slipped. It was just the two of us. The rigid strategist and the chaotic improviser, communicating through a look loaded with panic and desperation. And in the middle of that terror, I discovered something strange. I didn't see accusation in his eyes. I didn't see last night's reproach. I saw a silent acknowledgment that we were drowning in the same cesspool and that, funnily enough, we were damn good at lying together.

That first locked gaze was a spark of pure relief. A silent truce signed in the middle of crossfire. I supplied the emotions; he backed me up with logic. We weren't a bad team.

Eleanor stood from her chair, smoothing her linen skirt.

"If you will excuse me, I have important calls to place to Switzerland. Winston will oversee your morning entertainment."

Winston delivered a deep bow, grabbed the handlebar of the silver cart, and rolled the funerary dog out of the dining room, escorting his boss.

We wasted no time. The second Eleanor crossed the threshold, Liam faked an aristocratic yawn, offering me his arm again.

"My love, I believe travel fatigue is catching up with us. We should retire to our quarters for a moment."

"I completely agree, darling. The sun is giving me a migraine," I seconded, standing up quickly and threading my hand through his sleeve.

We walked the halls at a brisk pace, keeping the plastic smiles glued to our faces until we reached the spiral staircase. The second our feet hit the third-floor carpet, the facade vanished. Liam broke into long strides, completely ignoring the pain in my feet, practically dragging me to the gold-trimmed door.

He jammed the key in, unlocked it, shoved me into the Bridal Suite, and slammed the heavy mahogany door shut, throwing the manual deadbolt instantly.

We stood in the center of the massive room, panting like we’d just run a 10K.

"A cart. She transports it on a damn dessert cart," Liam muttered, yanking at his tie knot with shaking fingers. He lost his British accent entirely. "The woman is clinically unhinged. Who walks dog ashes?"

"Billionaires, Liam. Billionaires do whatever the hell they want because nobody has the guts to tell them they're idiots," I shot back, kicking off the one shoe I was wearing and hurling it against the stone wall of the fireplace. The dull thud gave me a microscopic ounce of satisfaction.

I threw myself onto the bed's duvet, digging my nails into the silk.

"Your yacht story was brilliant," I admitted, staring at the ceiling grudgingly. Tossing out a compliment cost me, but it was the truth. "I didn't know you had that much imagination hiding under that tight suit."

Liam looked at me from the center of the room. His breathing leveled out. He crossed his arms, but this time the posture wasn't defensive; it was calculating.

"You filled in the gaps impeccably. The detail about the jewelry trunk added the exact superficiality necessary for the Vanderbilts to feel empathy. You analyzed Penelope in seconds."

"It's my specialty. Reading people who think they're better than me."

We stayed quiet for a few moments. Last night's hostility had morphed into a different kind of tension. An electric charge of cooperative survival. We had to steal that urn right out from under their noses, and to pull it off, we’d have to stick to each other like ticks.

I sat up, crossing my legs in a lotus position on the mattress.

"Alright, strategist," I said, slipping into business mode. "The rules of the game changed. We can't use your lockpicks or your cloned card. We have to snatch the vase from the matriarch at some point during the day when there's enough of a distraction. I need to know what else you've got in that mental bag of tricks. Tell me you know how to do more than read locksmith manuals on internet forums."

Liam walked over to the bed. He peeled off his tuxedo jacket, folded it with an irritating level of perfectionism, and draped it over an armchair. His rolled-up white shirt sleeves revealed forearms that were surprisingly tense for someone who looked like a desk jockey.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, at a safe distance, but close enough that his weight sank my side of the bed.

"I have spatial photographic memory," he said quietly, looking directly into my eyes. "I saw the evacuation blueprints for this house on the service hallway wall for thirty seconds last night. I know all the exits. I know where the blind spots for the corridor cameras are. If you manage to create enough chaos to separate her from the cart, I will map the route to get the urn out of the building in under ninety seconds."

A predatory smile spread across my face.

"Chaos. I like that word. It's my middle name."

We were a second away from shaking hands to seal our new criminal partnership, when three sharp knocks on the wooden door paralyzed us.

Liam jumped off the mattress like he had springs in his heels. I fell backward, grabbing a pillow and hugging it tight.

"Yes?" Liam called out, scrambling to recover his British pitch.

"Mr. Jenkins, Miss Beaumont." Winston's unmistakable voice bled through the thick mahogany. "I apologize for interrupting your rest. The Matriarch has requested your immediate presence in the south garden. You have ten minutes to change."

I rolled my eyes in sheer frustration.

"Change into what, Winston?" I yelled back.

"For the surprise family bonding activity, miss," the butler replied, and I swore I heard a note of pure sadism in his voice. "Athletic wear and sturdy footwear, please. The family takes their lawn games very seriously."