The humid air of Saint Denis felt like a shroud, thick with the scent of jasmine and the stench of coal smoke. To Javier Escuella, the city was a gilded cage, but for you, it was a playground.

He watched you from across the ballroom, your silhouette framed by the amber glow of a crystal chandelier. You were a vision of lace and poise, the daughter of a family whose wealth was older than the guns on his hips. When you caught his eye and offered that secret, conspiratorial smile—the one that suggested you saw the revolutionary behind the refined suit—Javier felt a terrifying pull in his chest.

But Dutch van der Linde only saw the gold around your neck.

"She’s a distraction, Javier," Dutch whispered, his voice a low rumble as they stood on the outskirts of camp later that night. Dutch’s eyes were frantic, lit by a desperate hunger for the 'one last score' that never seemed to come. "You’ve done well. You’ve gotten close. But loyalty isn't measured in glances and dances. It’s measured in sacrifice."

"She’s different, Dutch," Javier argued, his hand gripping the neck of his guitar until his knuckles turned white. "She treats me with respect. She doesn’t see a bandit."

Dutch stepped into his space, his hand heavy on Javier’s shoulder. "That’s because she doesn't know you, son. But I know you. I saved you. And right now, this family—your real family—is starving while she sleeps on silk sheets bought with the blood of the working man. Take what they won't miss. For us."

Javier looked at the man who had given him a purpose when he had nothing. The blinders of loyalty snapped into place, cold and absolute. "Tonight," he murmured. "I’ll get it done."

The infiltration was a dance of shadows. Javier moved through the gardens of your estate like a ghost, his dark poncho discarded for a sleek, black coat that melted into the gloom. He scaled the trellis with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his life outrunning the law.

He slipped through your balcony doors, his breath hitching as he saw you. You were asleep, your hair fanned out across the pillows like spilled ink. The room smelled of your perfume—lavender and expensive soap.

He moved toward the vanity, his fingers hovering over the jewelry box. Each click of the latch sounded like a gunshot in the silence. He pulled out a heavy gold pocket watch and a string of pearls, stuffing them into his satchel.

Clack.

The sound of a floorboard groaning made his blood turn to ice. He spun around, hand instinctively flying to the knife at his belt, but he froze.

He stood paralyzed, the stolen weight in his bag feeling like a mountain. If he ran, he was a thief. If he stayed, he was a liar.