Chapter 3
Blue
The Pacific Ocean sparkles under a late afternoon sun, all gold and blue, like it’s showing off just for me.
I lean against Betty’s rusted side, parked in a cramped lot off of Ocean Avenue, and sip a too-sweet iced coffee that’s more sugar syrup than caffeine.
Skipper sniffs at a palm frond that’s fallen nearby, her tiny sheriff badge still clipped to her collar from that damn Halloween costume.
My now red hair is tucked under a wide-brimmed hat with the extension pieces flowing down my back in soft beachy waves, and I’m rocking a backless, cream linen jumpsuit that screams “I belong in this bougie Santa Monica neighborhood.” It’s a lie, of course, but lies are my currency, and I spend them like a high roller at a Vegas blackjack table.
I let out a breath, the small sound swallowed by the coastal wind.
Loneliness is a constant companion lately, a dull ache I usually manage with adrenaline and the satisfaction of a job well done.
But since that night, since Black’s rough hands were wrapped around my throat, since Red's cock was in my mouth, since the shuddering relief when I came while wrapped tight by all three of them, the loneliness has sharpened into a need.
A need for the chaos they brought and the desire I saw in their eyes.
Stop it, Demi. That was a game.
It was a game I’d won—twice. I’d secured my exit and snagged their haul, the little "tax" I charged them for the experience. The thought of their faces when they woke up to the note and missing money still makes me laugh and cringe a little at the same time. I’m sure they were furious, sure they wanted to track me down to take back what I stole.
If I let myself look underneath at the unsettling, terrifying truth? Part of me wants them to.
It’s the worst kind of foolishness. Attachment is a weakness, and I can’t afford weaknesses.
I survived my mother’s death and rebuilt my life on two principles: absolute self-reliance and the pursuit of justice.
The grief and rage over her unnecessary loss are the only things keeping me moving, the only feelings I trust. The sexual bliss the men gave me, the feeling of connection when Black’s eyes met mine, yeah, that's dangerous. That’s a detour back to vulnerability, and I’d die before I go back there.
I toss my hair to clear those thoughts away.
Santa Monica’s buzzing with Christmas cheer that feels like a Halmark movie in sixty-degree weather.
There’s twinkling lights draped over palm trees, pop-up ice rinks that look absurd next to surf shops, and rich assholes pretending they care about charity while they sip overpriced holiday cocktails at rooftop bars.
The whole phony scene makes my teeth ache.
I'm here for one of those assholes, Victor Hensley, the for-profit healthcare insurance denier who built his empire on crushing people like my mom.
His company uses AI algorithms to flag “unnecessary” treatments.
Polite talk for denying claims for life-saving drugs and surgeries.
Hensley is part of the same cruel system that allowed Chad Lamott to buy up the patent for a necessary, common drug and price-gouge it until it was out of reach.
We fought for months, appealing, begging, selling everything from our car, our furniture, even my high school laptop, to try to pay out of pocket for the medicine his company wouldn’t cover even though we had paid the premiums every month.
It wasn’t enough. She died in our shitty Tacoma apartment, gasping for air, her hand cold in mine.
I was nineteen, alone, and so fucking scared and angry I could’ve burned the world down.
I channeled that fury, spending the next four years finishing my computer science education and learning all I could about hacking and the dark web with the sole, burning purpose of making them all pay.
The adrenaline rush from the Halloween con only sated the rage for a moment. Hensley is the next name on the list, the next architect of systemic cruelty and greed who needs to see the consequence of his misdeeds and I’m just the girl for the job.
Hensley’s got a digital safe in his cliffside mansion stuffed with crypto keys worth millions and files proving his deliberate claim denials.
I’m here to take it all and hand the evidence to the authorities, making sure his ruin is absolute.
At his elaborate Christmas gala, I’m Sapphire Blake, an event planner hired to handle the party of the year.
With my computer skills, building fake Instagram and LinkedIn profiles and adding in social proof was child’s play.
I filled my feeds with yacht parties, celebrity weddings, all the glitz a vain prick like Hensley eats up.
And I made sure the top I wore gave him a nice view of my tits when I “accidentally” bumped into him at his favorite coffee shop last month, spilling a little of the latte I was holding on his Armani suit and fluttering my lashes in apology. Idiot.
I pull my laptop from the back of the van and run a diagnostic on the tiny jammer I’ve tucked into the lining of my bag.
Hensley’s private security firm is top-tier, relying on cutting-edge RFID tracking and motion-sensing lasers.
My job is to bypass it all, find the server room, install my package, and crack that safe before he toasts his own false generosity at the end of the gala.
Skipper nudges my leg, whining softly. I pick her up and scratch behind her ears. "Don't worry, Skip. I'm not leaving you in the van. You're my co-pilot now."
She’s the only truly innocent thing I’ve allowed into my life since I lost my mom, and the thought of giving her up is the only thing that makes me pause. Skipper is a luxury, a complication, a weakness, but right now, she’s all I have. Taking her from the last con leaves me with zero regrets.
Skipper yaps, pulling my gaze to a gaggle of influencers snapping selfies by a giant sandcastle shaped like a Christmas tree, starfish ornaments glinting in the sun.
I roll my eyes and straighten her badge.
She growled and snapped her sharp little teeth when I tried to take it off after Halloween, like she’s committed to this sheriff shtick.
Guess she likes pretending we’re the good guys.
Got to love the irony. “You’re the only one I trust, Skip,” I murmur, and she tilts her head, those beady eyes saying, Duh, I’m the best. I grin, but it fades fast. Trust is a luxury I can’t afford, not after what I pulled on Halloween.
My mind flashes to that night again with Red, Green, and Black, those masked, muscled bastards who crashed my house-sitting gig in that Victorian mansion.
I was there to hit Chad Lamott’s safe, the pharma prick who jacked up the price of mom’s drug.
I hadn’t planned on those three hiding out from cops after their own heist down the street, picking my place at random to lay low.
They burst in, guns drawn, masks on, thinking they’d scare me into submission.
Big mistake. I played the damsel, all wide eyes and breathy pleas, then turned it on them by flirting, teasing, letting them tie me up and fuck me senseless.
Black’s grip on my throat, tight enough to make me see stars.
Red’s tongue, wicked and relentless, tracing my skin.
Green’s fingers, reverent but ruthless, finding every spot that made me scream.
Fuck. I shake it off, but my body’s not listening, heat pooling low, nipples hardening against the thin fabric of my jumpsuit.
I’d like to fool myself into believing they were just a good fuck but there was a spark there, a dangerous pull I didn’t ask for and definitely don’t want.
Drugging them and stealing part of their haul was supposed to burn that bridge.
I thought that’d be the end of it, but there’s an itch in my gut, a whisper that says those three won’t let a con like that slide.
I check my watch. Time to go from Demi Carter, loner, to Sapphire Blake, event planner extraordinaire. The rage is ready. The focus is back. The game is on. I just need to remember to keep my eyes on the prize and my back to the past.
I straighten, adjust my hat, and check my phone again for my ride.
The gala’s in two nights on Christmas Eve.
I’ve got forty-eight hours to finish getting it ready.
I need to hack his safe, grab the crypto keys and files, and vanish before he knows what hit him.
Skipper hops into her carrier bag, and I sling it over my shoulder, heading for the Uber that’s just pulled up to take me to the cliffside mansion. Time to work.
The mansion is a glass-and-steel monstrosity perched over the ocean, all sharp angles and pretentious modern art.
I ring the bell, pasting on my best professional smile, sweet but sharp, like a candy cane with a razor edge.
The door swings open, and there he is, Victor Hensley, mid-fifties, slicked-back gray hair, fake tan screaming midlife crisis, and eyes that linger too long on my cleavage.
“Sapphire! Come in, come in. Let’s discuss the final details for the gala. ”
His voice is oily, like he’s trying to sell me a timeshare I’d regret for life.
I step inside, Skipper’s bag bumping my hip, and follow him through a foyer dripping with holiday decadence.
There’s gold garlands, a crystal-encrusted Christmas tree that screams “I’m rich,” and a massive chandelier shaped like a snowflake.
It’s gaudy as hell, but I keep my smile in place, playing the part.
“Everything’s on track, Victor,” I say, pulling out my tablet and swiping through fake spreadsheets.
“The catering’s set with oysters, truffles and everything else you’ve requested.
The music’s booked with a popular live jazz band that will do holiday songs.
And the staff? Sexy holiday themed costumes, just like you wanted.
Shirtless guys in Christmas half-masks—reindeer, elves, Santa vibes.
Skimpy elf outfits for the girls. It keeps it festive and fun with a dash of sexy. ”
He chuckles, his gaze dipping to my chest again, and I fight the urge to gag.
“Love it, Sapphire. You’ve got a real eye for… entertainment.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl, like I’m on the menu. I lean into it, letting him think he’s got a shot, because that’s the game.
“And the after-party?” he presses, stepping closer, his cologne choking me. “You promised something… mind-blowing.”
I tilt my head, giving him a teasing smile that’s all teeth. “Oh, it’ll be explosive, Victor. Trust me, by the end of the night, you’ll have the gift that will be life changing.”
I’ve dropped hints about an exclusive after-party for him alone with special guests, letting his dirty mind run wild.
It’ll be an orgy, with some high-end escorts I’ve booked to stroke his ego and set him up exactly where I want him.
He eats it up, his eyes gleaming with greed and lust, just like I planned.
Yesterday, during setup, he was even worse, cornering me by the dessert tables, and “helping” me arrange centerpieces while his hand kept grazing my ass.
“You’re quite the planner, Sapphire,” he’d purred, his fingers lingering on my lower back. “Maybe we could discuss exactly what extras you’re offering after the party?”
I played along, batting my lashes like a good little con artist. “We’ll see how the night goes.”
Inside, I was seething, picturing mom’s pale face, her shallow breaths, the way she whispered, “It’s okay, Demi,” even as she slipped away.
Hensley’s company denied her claim with a rubber stamp, probably while he was sipping champagne on his yacht.
He’s done it to thousands of families who lost parents, kids, spouses because of his greed and the red tape forced on them.
It’s all hoops for desperate people to jump through never knowing that they’ll be denied in the end no matter what they fill out.
No guilt here. He deserves everything I’ve got coming for him, his safe emptied, his crimes plastered across the news, his life in ruins.
Hensley leads me to his office, all chrome and leather, with a massive desk and a digital safe hidden behind a tacky painting of a yacht. Real original, asshole.
“Chocolate truffles are a must,” he says, leaning too close, his breath hot on my neck. “Something decadent, like you.”
I force a laugh, tucking a strand of red hair behind my ear, and step back just enough to keep him hungry.
“Noted, Victor. I’ll make sure it’s a night you’ll never forget.”
Oh, you have no fucking idea. I’m picturing his face when he wakes up to an empty safe, his dirty secrets leaked, his empire crumbling. My phone pings with a fake notification I set up, and I use it as an excuse to slip away.
“I have to go confirm the final delivery with the florist. See you tomorrow for the final setup?”
He nods, eyes still on my chest. “Don’t keep me waiting, Sapphire.”
I flash a smirk and head out, Skipper’s bag swinging as I stride through the glass-walled foyer. When I round the corner, I bump into someone and stagger back. I lift a hand to reach out and steady the woman I bumped into, my hand sliding over her waist briefly.
“Oh! Mrs. Hensley, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. I was just going over the final details of the gala with your husband. I think you will be very pleased with the end results.”
The woman studies me with a blank mask of indifference on her face before tilting her head in a slight nod and then moving around to pass me. I turn my head to watch her go and when I look back, my eyes meet one of the security guards that are scattered around the house.
I slide a smile across my face and shrug at him. “Well, alright then!”
He smirks back at me and takes the opportunity to scan his leering eyes down my body as I walk past him.
I shoot him a wink as I go and keep that smile on my face until I leave out the front door.
Outside, the ocean breeze hits me, cooling the rage simmering under my skin.
I catch my reflection in a window and smirk at the red hair, fierce eyes and a woman on a mission.
Two nights to go. Time to deck his halls and burn them to the fucking ground.