The next day, Anya moved like a phantom.
Dressed in dark, nondescript clothing, she slipped through the side gate of the Sharp estate during the morning grocery delivery, a shadow in the bustling activity of the staff.
She kept low, using the familiar lines of the manicured hedges and the grand architecture as cover. The security cameras had predictable patterns, patterns she had memorized over years of feeling watched. She moved from one blind spot to the next, her heart a steady, determined drum against her ribs.
Her target was the second floor. Falon's room.
As she reached the base of the grand staircase, the sound of voices from the living room made her freeze.
Falon's high, simpering laugh. Veronica's fawning tones. And another voice, a man's, low and resonant. They had a guest. An important one.
Anya pressed herself behind a large marble sculpture, peering through the carved leaves.
A man in an impeccably tailored suit sat on the cream-colored sofa. He radiated an aura of quiet power and old money that made the Sharps' ostentatious wealth look cheap. Anya recognized him from the society pages: Grant Sterling. The elder son of the Sterling family, a man known for his sharp intellect and even sharper business acumen.
Falon was practically draped over the arm of the sofa next to him, showing off her jewelry collection. "And this one is from Paris," she cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Daddy bought it for me last spring."
"Our Falon is so admired in her circle," Veronica added, preening. "Her engagement to your brother, Hayes, is the talk of the town. We're planning the most magnificent wedding."
Grant Sterling's expression was polite, but his eyes were distant. His fingertips tapped a restless rhythm on the side of his coffee cup. He was bored. Impatient.
"My mood would be even better if it weren't for the houseguest who had a complete meltdown yesterday," Falon pouted, turning to Grant. "She's just a charity case we took in. Utterly obsessed with Hayes and insanely jealous of me, of course."
Veronica chimed in, her voice laced with venom. "Don't even mention that ungrateful wretch, Grant. We fed and clothed her for ten years, and she repaid us by trying to seduce your brother. We had no choice but to throw her out."
Grant's brow furrowed, a barely perceptible motion. He clearly disliked gossip and backstabbing.
Hidden behind the statue, a hot rage surged through Anya. Lies. All of it, a disgusting tapestry of lies woven to make them look magnanimous and her look pathetic. She forced the anger down. The mission was the brooch. Nothing else mattered.
She was about to pull back when a flash of light from Falon's dress caught her eye.
Her breath hitched.
Pinned to the bodice of Falon's expensive designer dress was a familiar butterfly. Antique silver, with delicate filigree wings and a small sapphire at its center.
Her mother's brooch.
"And look at this, Grant," Falon said, her voice filled with smug pride as she touched the butterfly. "This is a Sharp family heirloom. Isn't it exquisite?"
The blood rushed to Anya's head, so loud it was a roar in her ears.
Heirloom?
That was her mother's. Her heirloom.
The last thread of her control snapped.
She stepped out from behind the sculpture. Her movements were silent, but her presence filled the room.
Her voice was low and cold, cutting through their frivolous chatter like a shard of ice.
"Take it off."
Three heads whipped around. Three pairs of eyes widened in shock. They saw a girl in simple, dark clothes, her face pale but her eyes burning with an intensity that made them all flinch.
Veronica was the first to recover, her face contorting in a mask of fury. "You! How did you get in here? Security!"
Falon, like a startled cat, instinctively clutched the brooch. A flicker of pure panic crossed her face before she masked it with outrage.
Grant Sterling, however, simply watched. His gaze was sharp, analytical. He looked from the girl Veronica had described as an "ungrateful wretch" to the actual girl standing before him. The two didn't match. Not at all.
Anya ignored Veronica's screeching. Her focus was entirely on Falon. She took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"That does not belong to you," she repeated, her voice dangerously calm. "Take it off your filthy dress and give it back to me."
Falon, unnerved by Anya's cold fury, took a step back. She immediately turned to Grant, her eyes welling up with practiced tears, her lower lip trembling. The victim. It was a role she played to perfection.
"Grant, you see?" she whimpered. "She's insane! This is my family's heirloom! She's trying to rob me!"
Grant remained silent, his gaze shifting between Anya's unwavering stare and Falon's theatrical display. He was a judge, and the trial had just begun.
Anya let out a humorless smile. "An heirloom? Really?" She took another step closer. "Then tell me, Falon. Tell our guest. What are the initials engraved on the back?"
The question hung in the air, a guillotine poised over Falon's head.
The color drained from Falon's face. She was trapped.
Grant Sterling leaned forward slightly, setting his coffee cup down with a soft click. A flicker of genuine interest lit his eyes. This was far more entertaining than jewelry.
The silence in the grand living room was absolute, broken only by the frantic ticking of a grandfather clock, counting down the seconds of Falon's lie.
