Chapter 13 – Demi （February 14）
The Heart of Gold Auction is a masterclass in hypocrisy.
The ballroom of the Thorne Estate has been transformed into a bleeding heart of red velvet, cascading roses, and crystal chandeliers that drip light like diamonds.
It smells of money, expensive perfume, old scotch, and the distinct, metallic tang of ego.
I weave through the crowd of San Francisco’s elite, balancing a tray of champagne flutes.
My shoulders are hunched, my gaze is lowered, and my feet shuffle in the ugly orthopedic shoes.
I am furniture. I am a ghost in a room full of people who think they are gods because they’re bidding fifty thousand dollars on a vintage watch to "save the children" or "heal hearts. "
Bullshit.
Every dollar raised tonight is a tax write-off and an ego stroke to the rich. Every smile is a networking opportunity and presiding over it all is Dr. Evil in a couture dress.
She stands on a raised dais near the auctioneer’s podium, looking like a queen surveying her subjects.
She’s wearing a blood-red gown that looks like it was poured onto her body, the fabric shimmering like liquid rubies.
Her hair is a severe, platinum helmet, and her lips are painted a dark crimson.
She looks beautiful, powerful, and utterly soulless.
I tighten my grip on the silver tray, fighting the urge to fling the champagne into her face.
Focus, Demi. Stick to the script.
I tap my ear, a nervous tick that looks like I’m adjusting my hair to anyone watching, but actually activates the mic.
"Target is stationary at the podium," I whisper, barely moving my lips. "Security is heavy. Two on the dais, four roving the perimeter. Graves is hovering near the service entrance."
"Copy that," Damon’s voice is a cool breeze in my ear. "I’m tracking the rovers. You have a thirty-second window when the shift changes at the executive hallway. Not yet, though. We need the distraction."
"Distraction incoming," a smooth, arrogant voice purrs.
I look toward the main entrance just as the double doors swing open.
Marcus or rather, Julian Vane, strides into the room.
Holy shit. I’ve seen Marcus in a suit before.
I’ve seen him naked. I’ve seen him covered in sweat and lust. But I have never seen him like this.
He is devastatingly handsome. He’s wearing a midnight blue tuxedo with a black velvet lapel that screams 'old money.
' His hair is styled back, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, but he’s let a single curl fall forward, just to look a little dangerous.
He walks with a lazy, predatory grace that draws every eye in the room.
He looks rich, he looks bored, he looks exactly like my kind of trouble.
He pauses at the top of the stairs, scanning the room. His eyes slide right over me, Martha is invisible after all, and locks onto Aris Thorne. A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face.
"Showtime," he murmurs on the comms.
He descends the stairs, and the crowd literally parts for him. He radiates charisma like a blast furnace. I watch as he grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, not me, thank god, I’d probably drop the tray, and makes a beeline for the dais.
"Dr. Thorne," his voice carries, rich and smooth. "Julian Vane. My associates told me this was the event of the season, but they failed to mention the hostess was the real attraction."
It’s a line so cheesy it should come with a side of nachos, but Marcus sells it. He sells it with the dimples, with the heat in his eyes, with the sheer force of his personality.
Thorne turns with a phoney smile plastered on her face. She scans him, checking the Patek Philippe watch, the Prada shoes, and the confidence. She calculates his net worth in a microsecond and decides he’s worth her time.
Her icy smile thaws into something that almost looks human. "Mr. Vane. I’ve heard of your... aggressive investment strategies. I didn't know you had an interest in healthcare."
"I have an interest in anything that disrupts the status quo," Marcus says, stepping close enough to her to create an intimate pocket between them. He takes her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles. "And rumor has it, you’re the biggest disruptor in the valley."
She preens. Actually preens, and I try not to gag.
"Hook set," Andre’s voice rumbles in my ear. "Blue, get to the bar. I need to restock your tray."
I tear my eyes away from Marcus’s performance and shuffle toward the main bar, located near the back of the room.
The bartender is working with efficient, brutal precision.
He’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows exposing mouth watering forearm porn, a black vest, and a black tie.
Andre looks furious. Not at the guests, but at the situation.
He hates being on the sidelines. He hates that I’m out here exposed while he’s pouring gin and tonics for trophy wives.
I slide my empty tray onto the bar. "Refill, please," I squeak in my Martha voice.
He doesn't look at me, just grabs a bottle of champagne and starts filling fresh flutes on a new tray. But as he works, his body leans slightly toward mine across the bar top.
"You okay?" His voice is low enough to be lost under the jazz band’s rendition of 'My Funny Valentine.'
"I’m fine," I whisper back, keeping my head down. "Just want this over."
"Soon." He slides the fresh tray toward me. His hand brushes mine on the cold metal. It’s a fleeting touch, barely a second, but his fingers squeeze mine quick and hard, possessive, grounding. "You look... small in that wig."
"That’s the point."
"I hate it," he growls softly. "I want to burn it when all this is over."
"Later," I promise.
"Go. Graves is moving."
I risk a glance. The head of security is moving away from the service entrance, holding his hand to his ear. He’s heading toward the front, likely to check out the new VIP, Julian Vane.
"Marcus is drawing the heat," Damon says in my ear. "The corridor is clear in ten seconds. Demi, move to position."
I grab the tray. "Moving."
I shuffle away from the bar, weaving through the crowd.
I don't look at Andre again, but I can feel his eyes on my back, a heavy, protective weight as I make my way toward the side of the room, near the heavy velvet drapes that conceal the service entrance to the executive wing elevators and stairs.
On the dais, Marcus is leaning in close to Thorne, whispering something that makes her laugh, a harsh, barking sound. He has her locked down. She’s completely focused on him, her back to the room, her back to me.
"Mr. Vane suggests a private tour of the facilities to discuss a potential eight-figure donation," Damon narrates in my ear. "He’s trying to move her, but she’s not biting yet. She wants to do the auction first."
"I can't wait for the auction," I whisper. "I need to go now while Graves is distracted."
I wait with my tray for a few minutes but almost drop it when a woman’s high pitched voice screeches in outrage over the music quickly followed by the sound of a slap as flesh meets flesh.
My head jerks in the direction it came from and I almost bark out a laugh as I see two women pulling each other’s hair as their male partners start yelling in each other's faces.
My eyes slide past the melee to the bar behind them and bite hard at the smile wanting to form when Andre meets my gaze with an amused smirk.
Alright then, distraction accomplished.
"Window is open, the executive floor guard was just called down to help clear the mosh pit." Damon confirms with a small laugh. "Go. Now."
I check my surroundings. No one is looking at the mousy runner.
I slip behind the velvet drape. The noise of the party cuts off instantly, replaced by the hum of the HVAC system and the quiet of the service corridor.
I drop the Martha act instantly. My spine straightens.
My stride lengthens. I ditch the tray of champagne on a side table.
I don't need it where I’m going. I move fast, my rubber-soled shoes silent on the linoleum.
I reach the service elevator and hit the button.
"Elevator feed is looped," Damon confirms. "You’re invisible."
The doors slide open and I step inside and punch the button for the second floor. My pulse is racing, but it’s a steady, powerful rhythm. I’m not the scared girl in the van anymore. I’m not the grieving daughter. I’m the thief who is about to steal the heart of this corrupt empire.
When the elevator dings and the doors open, I step out into the empty, plush hallway of the executive wing just as the stairwell door bangs closed behind the guard.
"I’m in," I whisper with a smug smile.
"Copy," Andre replies. "I’ve got eyes on the ballroom. A very pissed off Thorne is still occupied with Marcus and the drama disrupting her party. Graves is sorting out the crowd around the fight, Graft hasn't moved from guarding the auction prizes."
"Marcus," I say. "Keep her talking. I need ten minutes."
"That reminds me of the time I capsized a yacht in Monaco," Marcus's voice comes back, light and breezy as he feeds a bullshit story to Thorne to keep her interest and I shake my head at the playboy story that’s pure bullshit.
I head down the hall toward the double doors at the end, past the now empty guard station and pull out the runner keycard Gary gave me. This is the moment of truth. If security flagged this card after they caught me yesterday...
I hold my breath and tap the card against the reader.
Beep.
The light turns green. The heavy magnetic lock disengages with a solid thunk and I let out a breath that shakes my entire frame.
"I’m accessing the office."
"Clear, confirm loop is active. You have the floor."
I push the door open and slip inside the dragon’s lair.
The office is dark, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the vineyard.
I don't waste time admiring the view as I head straight for the large painting of a vineyard landscape on the far wall. I reach behind the frame and trip the latch to let the painting swing forward smoothly. And there it is. The safe is a sleek, black metal square set into the wall. There’s no keypad or dial like a classic safe.
Just a scanner for a hand, a lens for an eye, and a microphone for a voice.
And, as Damon promised, a small, inconspicuous maintenance panel at the bottom, secured by four Phillips head screws.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the small screwdriver I lifted from the supply closet yesterday.
"Okay, boys," I whisper, dropping to my knees. "Let’s see if this key really fits."
"We’re with you, baby," Andre murmurs quietly. "Every step."
I fit the screwdriver into the first screw. It turns and the heist begins.