Chapter 19

Kalista

My whole body quivers with excitement.

We’re here. We’re finally here.

The room is awash with golden light from the chandeliers overhead, and the effect is more impressive by the way the light is reflected by the array of jewelry.

There are single pieces in this room that could easily equal, or exceed, the value of some of the lots up for auction.

It’s just such a shame that one of them is around the neck of a bitch like that.

“Did you see that?” I lean in and whisper into Griffin’s ear.

He looks at the woman in question. Her dress is far too small for her, and the large shimmering emeralds around her neck and wrist is perhaps the nicest—no—the only nice thing about her.

She’s a caricature, almost comical, except there’s nothing funny about the way she’s treating the poor serving girl.

The woman snaps her fingers in the young woman’s face—once, twice, and then a third time. Despite the constant chatter in the room, I can hear her asking where the champagne is, and why her glass—and the serving tray—is empty.

As though one nineteen-year-old is responsible for the champagne reserve for the entire auction.

“I see her,” Griffin whispers back, staring at this woman with a strange kind of fury.

We’d blow our cover if we did something now, but I know Griffin is committing her face to memory. The woman, however, is relentless, almost yelling at the poor girl who is just trying to diffuse the situation.

It’s then that we both realise that, despite her best efforts, the only English that the waitress can speak or understand is ‘Yes ma’am’ and ‘I’m sorry’.

She has no idea what this bitch is screaming about. It takes everything I have not to just sweep in there and rescue her.

“Come on, dear,” I say, emphasizing all terms of endearment—just in case anyone’s listening to us. “Let’s head to the bar, maybe we’ll spot someone else.”

“Of course, love,” Griffin agrees and places his hand on the small of my back, leading me to the mahogany bar at the end of the room. His fingers against my skin—through the cut out of my dress—sets my skin tingling with electricity.

“Could I have a martini, please?” I ask the bartender, who nods and then looks at Griffin, who orders a Macallan on the rocks.

“A martini, huh?” Griffin says to me while we’re waiting.

“It felt fitting for the occasion.”

“You’re not James Bond, you know.”

“I know.” I smile. “That’s why I didn’t say ‘shaken, not stirred’.”

Griffin laughs and shakes his head.

The bartender brings our drinks over to us, and I immediately take a sip of the cocktail.

We stand and watch the crowd for a few moments longer. Griffin spots a beautiful and ornate sapphire ring—that clashes horribly with the rest of the outfit that its owner is wearing.

A crime of fashion that could only be undone by us relieving her of the ring.

Then, I spot a man who I swear I’ve seen before.

I’ve actually never seen him in my life, but between his bad toupee and upturned nose, it feels like I’m looking at every man my father’s ever done business with.

“Why are billionaires so afraid of balding?” I ask Griff. With his full head of thick dark hair, I can’t ever imagine him without it.

“I don’t know love, but here’s a better question.” He nods to the same man, and then the small blonde that moves to his side. He wraps his arm around her, and she leans against him subtly.

“Is that his daughter, wife, or mistress?”

I study her for a minute. She’s wearing a beautiful Oscar De La Renta dress, but it looks wrong on her, somehow.

She’s not wearing the dress—it’s wearing her. Like a man had picked it out—a man who, ultimately, knows nothing about a woman’s body.

“She was his mistress once, but now she’s his second—no, third—wife,” I conclude, and I pity that poor girl across the room. She looks my age, and yet she’s trapped with him.

I look at Griff briefly, and I can’t imagine my life without him.

Or, I can’t imagine going back to my old life.

Is this really what we are all like? Swanning about in ballrooms, comparing caviars and wasting money on things we don’t need?

I sigh and look about the room. If I’d never met Griffin, this would still be my life. I’d be wearing a gown, and laughing at shit jokes, and drinking champagne just to numb the boredom I felt from being here.

I take a sip from my martini, and then drink the rest. Griffin appears not to notice, or if he does, he says nothing.

I think he must understand. He must have been in my shoes at one time.

We wander around the ballroom for hours, watching everyone like hawks—trying to find more marks. I suggest that the ninety-year-old man and his wife might be an easy mark, but Griffin disagreed.

He would be an easy mark with those arthritic wrists, but the way he looks at his wife restores some of my hope in humanity.

However, the young man—late twenties, at the oldest—who tripped the waiter carrying canapés deserves everything that Griffin and I will do to him.

His high pitched, mocking laughter echoes throughout the room, and I want to trip him in just the same way.

He might have a man’s body, but if he wants to act like a child, we’ll treat him like one.

“Right love, you ready to go to work?” Griffin asks. He too, has just watched this man make a fool out of another server. Though in his eyes, I can see that Griffin would much prefer to knock some sense into the bastard rather than stealing his wallet, keys, and dignity.

“I’m ready when you are, Mr. Langdon.” I smile sweetly and lean up. We kiss each other on the cheek—I feel his hot breath on my skin, and my hand touches his chest gently.

“Go make me proud, love,” he whispers in my ear. As we walk in different directions, I feel Griff’s hand smack my ass. I hold my head up high and walk through the crowd, finding the marks I’d picked out for myself.

My Alexander McQueen clutch bag was deceptively large—we’d picked it to be the perfect size for an operation like this, and Griffin’s Armani suit had secret pockets hidden in the lining.

He’d had it custom made in Italy, and despite how it clung to his body in all the right ways, you would have no idea there were millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry on him if you hadn’t seen him take it.

And of course, no one ever sees.

I start with the man with the bad toupee, sweeping over to him and placing both hands on his arms. I make a scene, but not too large, to draw everyone’s attention to my lips and my mouth as I kiss him on either cheek.

That way, no one watches my hands as they slip his wallet from his jacket.

As I leave, I look at his wife one last time. Her eyes meet mine, and she clearly wishes to be anywhere else but here.

My next mark is the woman with the garish sapphire ring. She’s wearing long white evening gloves, so slipping it from her finger was almost child’s play.

It slips into a secret compartment in my dress, and the woman practically falls over herself at the sight of me.

She has no idea who I am—she only knows me as Mrs. Langdon rather than Kalista von Knopf. But I’m young, and I’m beautiful, and rich people are nothing but shallow.

It’s why they like diamonds.

I scan the room to see where Griffin is—if he’s left any marks left for me to catch. He hasn’t. I feign conversation with another guest, and I watch him from the corner of my eye.

Griff has left the man and woman who abused the servers for last.

He starts by spilling his drink, the ice tumbling everywhere all over the floor. The young man doesn’t watch his feet, and slips right in the puddle, spilling champagne all over the busty woman from before.

They’re horrified and too caught up with the other to notice Griffin, as he slips the emerald jewels from her wrist, as well as the wallet from his pants, and the car keys from his jacket.

I see the flash of a jaguar attached to the keychain, and I must stop myself from laughing.

But that’s my cue to leave and meet Griffin by the car.

I’m almost out the door when I see him.

Daddy.

He walks right past me—not noticing for a second that I’m his daughter. I’d almost forgotten that I looked any different, that I had begun to carry myself differently until his blank eyes passed over my form.

The air is knocked out of my lungs, and for a moment, I feel fragile.

I don’t ever want to go back to my old life, and yet—I can’t leave him.

He needs to know I’m okay.

So, I do a final lap, pausing to write my phone number and ‘2 p.m.’ on a napkin.

I slip it into his pocket, and then I all but run from the ballroom before anyone can see the tears that sting in the back of my eyes.

But as soon as I see Griffin, I feel reassured. He’s grinning at me as I approach, leaning against the side of his Ferrari.

“Let’s go home, Mr. Langdon,” I say, patting my dress where I’d slipped the ring and another woman’s necklace. They jingle in my pocket. “I want to slip into something more comfortable.”