Selina had broken into penthouses, hidden in mansions, and slept beneath museum skylights—but she’d never bought a house.

Not until now.

She stood in the overgrown yard of a fixer-upper that smelled faintly of rain and roses, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up in her hair. It wasn’t flashy. No marble staircase, no rooftop helipad. But it had charm. Potential. A place to land, instead of just hide.

Beside her, her wife pointed out the cracked window like it was a promise, not a problem. Selina just smirked.

“Guess we’re homeowners,” she muttered.

A thief with keys. A new chapter. And for once, no one was running.