I FREEZE.

Violetta turns around in an instant, her hand at her waist―going for a gun, I realize. But the moment she sees the man, she relaxes.

"Dominic," she breathes, melting into him in a warm embrace.

He seems to understand that if Violetta trusts me, I'm not a threat. He holsters his gun and wraps his arms around her. For a moment, I'm caught in a tangle of something like―

No, it doesn't matter to me that Violetta has a boyfriend, or a partner, or anything. I don't care. She's a stranger, someone I made a deal with. All I have to do is help her, and she'll pay me.

Then why do I feel so sick?

A hot match of fire is alight in my stomach as Violetta turns back to me. I wrangle a smile onto my face. Nothing to look at here. Nothing is wrong.

"Can we go now?" I can't stop the impatience from seeping into my voice. I don't want to be here, and the frantic pulse of my heartbeat is dragging me into a state of panic. We can't get caught. Not now. Not here.

I didn't see before, but Dante has brought a cart with him, something that looks like it's meant to carry luggage. Or stolen artwork. Laying on top of it, there are three orange vests.

Three neon orange vests. Worker clothes.

"What . . . are those for?" I ask. I have a feeling I'm not going to like it.

Dominic's eyes burn into my face, a withering stare. "To eat."

Violetta grins. "Shut up, Dominic. Without her, we wouldn't have known what to steal." To me, she says, "This is how we get out. Nobody wants to confront someone who works here."

"But look at us. We're wearing dresses. We look like we're guests."

Dominic's smile is more of a sneer. "Don't you think I know that?" And he pulls out two more black uniforms, similar to what he's wearing.

"Are you telling me we have to change?" I can hear the note of panic in my voice. "Here? Now?"

Violetta gives me a warm grin. I feel the twist in my pulse, the wrench in my stomach. I manage a smile back, but I can't help the jealousy that sears, a living, breathing beast.

"Fine," I say, unwilling to give Dominic any more ammunition. "Just turn around."

Violetta gives me a wicked look. "Both of us?"

I snatch the black jumpsuit and orange vest from Dominic, and pull off my dress right then. My body isn't something I'm ashamed of, and if they want to watch―by all means, they can.

I pull off the straps of the shimmering silver dress, sad to see it go. The air is cool against my skin as I tug it off, pulling it down from my legs. Cold in the frigid air of this empty exhibit, I step into the jumpsuit.

But I can't help but notice Violetta's eyes. Looking almost . . . hungry, devouring my skin, my bare legs, the taut firmness of my stomach. I notice her eyes drift higher, to the sheer bra I wear, and it feels almost like a touch, that gaze. Holding my breasts with those phantom fingers, rubbing the soft skin.

I pull the sleeves of the jumpsuit on before she can see the peak of my nipples.

Dominic is completely uncaring as he rummages through the bag to see which painting we picked. I feel almost relieved. Whatever Violetta saw just now, the heat in her stare, it was reserved for me alone.

I don't know if that's a good thing.

I shrug on the vest. Dominic begins to fill the rectangular garbage bag with pieces of paper, or some kind of gauze. It transforms the obvious shape into something akin to trash. Then he loads it onto the cart.

Violetta begins to wriggle out of her dress, her fingers dancing behind her. She must be reaching for some kind of zipper.

"Can you help me undo this?" she says.

Dominic and I both reach for the zipper. I let him have it, shrinking back into the shadows. I watch as the red dress comes undone around her, dissolving into a puddle of rosy silk.

I glance at the lacy bra and panties she's wearing, but it's intimate, too intimate―especially when I notice Dominic watching me coldly.

Once the worker uniform is on, and all three of us are clothed in matching uniforms, Dominic wheels the cart out of the exhibit and into the hallway. I don't know where we're going, and I'm certain I would be lost in here if Violetta hadn't found me.

"Can you look up ahead?" Dominic asks me. "Check if anyone is coming?"

I give him a stony look. "If we're dressed in worker uniforms, then why should we care if we're here? We're not suspicious."

But I relent. The truth is, I'm just as afraid of being caught. I move soundlessly over the marble tile. The soft shoes Dominic gave me are quiet―perfect. There is no one up ahead, but I can see the grand doors where the party awaits.

The way Vittoria described the ball tonight, I'm almost sad to miss it.

A sudden thought grips me. Vittoria―what if she comes looking for me?

I go back into the hallway. Masked by shadows, I pause when I hear voices talking.

Dominic and Violetta.

"I don't want her here," Dominic says, the rough grate of his voice sharp in my ears. I know instantly he is talking about me.

"We need her."

"What if she's lying?" And then, softer, "What did you promise her?"

"She's not." Violetta hesitates, the tension palpable. "Fifty percent."

I can hear a low string of Italian curse words. From where I'm standing in the shadow, neither of them can see me, but I can see the blood draining from Dominic's face. "We can't give a fifty percent cut."

"I promised her."

"Damn your word, then," Dominic says, and I feel cold trickle into me. If I don't get that money, if I can't escape Nathan, if this was all for nothing . . .

"No," Violetta says. Stone.

"How did you even meet her? How do you know this is truth?"

"She was drunk at a bar, and I danced with her." I can feel the anger simmering off of Dominic. Violetta continues, "Then . . . we talked about art. And she told me about this painting. The Desperate Dancer. When she said it was valued at half a million dollars . . . I took her to the museum. The cameras were down, then, for maintenance. She showed me how to take it without damaging it, and then . . . we took it back to my place. And she fell asleep."

Her words sound like they should be said softly, with sensitivity. But instead her tone is cold, unfeeling. As though it's nothing more than a plot, as though I'm nothing more than an object.

Something to use. Discard.

I thought I saw the heat in her eyes when she was looking at me, but I was wrong. When this is over, and she doesn't need me, I'll never see her again.

I should feel relieved. Why am I not relieved?

Sickened, I move back into the shadows. I make my appearance known by walking with heavier footsteps, as though I only just came back. As though I didn't hear any of that.

"The coast is clear," I say.

Dominic nods briskly and rolls the cart forward. Not a single person appears to open the door or question us. I can hear the music, loud and lively, from within the ballroom. I feel a longing to be inside there.

Why did I have to chase her? Why did I have to get myself tangled into this―this disaster?

No, I tell myself. If I get that money, and Violetta swore I would, then it would be worth it. One night of dancing for a life without Nathan. It was worth it.

But as we opened the doors into the night, the cart's wheels harsh against the gravel, music fading behind us, I wondered. Had I made the right choice?

Chasing her?