Stolen Fortune, Stolen Heart: The Caged Ward

The clasp of the clutch dug into the pad of Cinnamon Taylor's thumb. It was a sharp, grounding pain, a necessary distraction from the suffocating scent of lilies and old money that permeated the Pierre Hotel's grand ballroom. She stood in the shadow of a massive marble pillar, her back rigid, her breath shallow. She wasn't supposed to be invisible-she was the fiancée of Arturo Watts, after all-but invisibility was the only armor she had left tonight. She ran her finger over the cold metal latch again. Click. Release. Click. Release. It was a nervous tic she couldn't suppress. Her eyes darted toward the exit signs, glowing red like warning beacons in the sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns. She just needed to make it to the powder room, then the side door, then the street. Just twenty feet of polished parquet floor stood between her and freedom. A waiter passed by, balancing a silver tray laden with crystal flutes of champagne. He was moving too fast, his gait uneven. Cinnamon saw it happen a split second before it did. She twisted her torso, pulling her silk skirt out of his path, but she couldn't save the bag. The waiter's elbow clipped her forearm. The impact wasn't hard, but it was precise. The clutch slipped from her sweating palm. It hit the floor with a sound that seemed to stop time-a heavy, dull thud that echoed louder than the string quartet playing in the corner. The clasp, the one she had been tormenting all night, sprang open. Lipstick. A compact mirror. A tampon. Her phone. They scattered across the pristine floor like debris from a crash site. Cinnamon dropped to a crouch instantly, heat flooding her cheeks. Her hands shook as she reached for the lipstick. "Oh, dear. Do you need a hand with that?" The voice was high, sweet, and laced with arsenic. Cinnamon froze. She didn't need to look up to know that Tiffany Watts was standing over her. She could see the hem of the red Valentino gown, the same shade as fresh arterial blood. Tiffany didn't wait for an answer. She stepped forward, her stiletto heel coming down hard on the strap of Cinnamon's bag. Cinnamon looked up then. Tiffany was smiling, but her eyes were dead. She had brought an audience-three other women from the Junior League, all watching with the predatory interest of sharks circling a wounded seal. "Move your foot, Tiffany," Cinnamon whispered, her voice tight. "I'm just trying to help, cousin," Tiffany said, loud enough for the table nearby to turn their heads. "You always were so clumsy. It must be hard, trying to balance in shoes that cost more than your father's bail bond." Cinnamon grabbed the strap and yanked. Tiffany stumbled slightly but didn't budge. "I said, move." Before the tension could snap, a scream pierced the air from the other side of the room. "My brooch! My Pink Star! It's gone!" The chatter in the ballroom died instantly. The string quartet faltered and stopped. Cinnamon stood up slowly, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She looked toward the source of the noise. Mrs. Van der Hoven, a woman whose neck was usually draped in enough diamonds to fund a small country, was clutching her bare throat. Her face was a mask of theatrical horror. "It was just here!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at her chest. "Someone took it!" Walker, the head of hotel security, was moving before the echo of the scream faded. He signaled to two large men in earpieces, who immediately moved to block the main double doors. The air in the room shifted from celebratory to suffocating. Tiffany let out a small, sharp gasp. "Oh no," she said, her voice carrying unnaturally well in the sudden silence. "We must find it. For the sake of the family's reputation, we should all volunteer to be searched right now." Cinnamon looked at Tiffany. The smile was gone, replaced by a mask of concern that didn't reach her eyes. Cinnamon's heart hammered against her ribs. The waiter. The bump. The bag. It was a setup. Walker was already making his way through the crowd, heading straight for Mrs. Van der Hoven. The older woman was hyperventilating, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed, with terrifying precision, on Cinnamon. "Her," Mrs. Van der Hoven hissed, pointing a manicured finger. "She was the only one near me. That... that scammer's daughter." The whisper started low and rose like a tide. Taylor. Ponzi scheme. Thief. Like father, like daughter. Cinnamon felt the blood drain from her face. She straightened her spine, smoothing the fabric of her dress. It was a reflex, a desperate attempt to look composed when her world was tilting on its axis. Walker turned. He was a professional, his face impassive, but there was a hardness in his eyes as he approached her. The crowd parted for him, leaving Cinnamon isolated against the cold marble pillar. "Ms. Taylor," Walker said. It wasn't a question. "We need to check your bag." "I haven't been near Mrs. Van der Hoven all night," Cinnamon said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "This is ridiculous. I refuse to be searched without a warrant." "Don't be difficult, Cinnamon," Tiffany chimed in, stepping closer. "If you have nothing to hide, just show them. Don't embarrass Arturo more than you already have." The mention of his name was a physical blow. Arturo. If he saw this... if he thought she was a liability... the NDA, the allowance, the protection-it would all be gone. "Hand over the bag, Ma'am," Walker said, stepping into her personal space. Cinnamon gripped the clutch to her chest, her knuckles turning white. "No." Walker didn't ask again. He reached out, his hand large and rough, and wrenched the bag from her grasp. Cinnamon stumbled back, her shoulder blades hitting the hard stone of the pillar. She was trapped. Walker didn't open it gently. He turned the bag upside down over the nearest banquet table, shaking it violently. Her phone clattered out again. Her compact. And then, tumbling out with a heavy, damning sparkle, was a brooch. A massive pink diamond surrounded by smaller white stones, catching the chandelier light and throwing it back into the eyes of everyone watching. The gasp from the crowd sucked the oxygen out of the room. "Thief!" Mrs. Van der Hoven screamed, lunging forward before being held back by her husband. "I knew it! A rat is always a rat!" Cinnamon stared at the brooch. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs felt like they were filled with concrete. She looked up, searching for the waiter, for anyone who had seen the collision, but the faces around her were a blur of judgment and malice. Tiffany shook her head, a performance of tragic disappointment. "Oh, Cinnamon. The Taylor bloodline really is dirty, isn't it?" Phones were out now. Flashes popped like gunfire, blinding her. Cinnamon pressed her back harder against the pillar, wishing the stone would open up and swallow her whole. She bit the tip of her tongue, tasting copper, using the pain to keep from crying. She would not cry. She would not give them that satisfaction. Walker pulled out his radio. "Call NYPD. We have the item and the suspect." Tiffany smirked. It was a small, victorious twitch of her lips, visible only to Cinnamon. Then, the massive gilded doors at the entrance of the ballroom flew open with a violence that shook the floorboards. The sound was like a thunderclap. The murmurs died instantly. The flashes stopped. Arturo Watts stood in the doorway. He was wearing a black tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the lean power of his frame. He didn't look angry. He didn't look upset. He looked like a void. His face was completely devoid of expression, his eyes dark and unreadable as they swept across the room. He didn't move for a long moment. He just stood there, radiating a cold, terrifying energy that made the air temperature seem to drop ten degrees. He was the executor, the king of this jungle, and he had just walked in on the animals tearing apart his property. His gaze locked onto Cinnamon. She stopped breathing entirely. She waited for the disgust. She waited for him to turn his back and leave her to the police. It was what a rational businessman would do. Cut the loss. protect the brand. But Arturo didn't leave. He started to walk.