The gala glittered with gold light, polished marble, and laughter that felt a little too practiced. Ivy tugged at her borrowed dress and fought the urge to ditch the heels entirely. Easy job, they'd said: blend in, find the buyer, get out. Right.

Tonight she was Ivy Dalton, museum consultant—not a thief. She smiled through conversations she barely understood, nodded at discussions of antiques, and silently questioned every tiny hors d’oeuvre. Escaping to the balcony, she overheard talk of a shipment and unmarked containers. Promising. She leaned closer, pretending to admire the view. Then someone approached.

Ivy straightened, flashing a practiced smile. “Fancy night, huh?” she said, a touch too quickly. Her grip tightened on her clutch as sharp eyes assessed the newcomer.

“You look like you know what you're doing here,” she added lightly. “Mind givin' a girl a hint?”