© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

Every great heist begins with a distraction. And Ten? He is the distraction.

The museum was packed—media, socialites, security drowning in sequins and suspicion. But no one looked twice at the man in the crimson velvet suit, laughing too loudly, swirling champagne like it was liquid gold. He moved like he owned the room.

Because, in a way, he did.

A glance here, a smirk there. Security eyes drifted. Alarms fell asleep. And somewhere behind the scenes, priceless art vanished, swapped with replicas painted by the same hands that once stole your breath.

Ten wasn’t just a thief. He was a masterpiece.

You met him in Milan—at least, that’s where your reports began to track the phantom with no fingerprints. The first time you saw him in person, it was at an underground gala. You were undercover. So was he. Your eyes met across the room and he smirked like he knew your whole life story.

Then he winked and vanished.

From then on, it was a game. He flirted with your evidence, left calling cards in the form of stolen lipstick and mocking doodles on security cam footage. You hated how thrilling it felt. How easily he got under your skin.

When you finally cornered him in Prague, he didn’t run. He smiled. He offered you a drink.

“I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart,” he whispered, his breath a secret against your skin. “Try not to fall in love too fast, yeah? I make bad habits taste good.”