EMMA

With an intent look, Professor Singh, the head of the Department of Education at the Museum of Modern Art, leaned closer. "Miss Lawrence, understanding how art affects people is a cornerstone of public engagement. In your view, what impact does art have on museum visitors?"

I paused, allowing the question to settle. My gaze drifted to the replicas on the opposite wall. Degas' The Ballet Class, Rembrandt's The Night Watch, Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring, and Raphael's Saint George and the Dragon. Each told its own story—a tapestry of human emotion and history.

But my gaze remained locked on Saint George and the Dragon. The knight's determination, the dragon's fury—it was a chaotic dance of opposites. A tale of good versus evil. At least, that was how it was meant to be.

As I stared at the dragon's iridescent green scales and burning eyes, I couldn't help but see myself reflected in its rage and defiance. The destruction it embodied mirrored my own life—built on deception, with each con adding another layer to my armor. But was that all I was—a dragon to be slain?

Perhaps. Maybe there was some truth to it. Maybe this was who I was—chaos in human form.

Once, I had taken pride in being the great Laverna—hailed as a legacy, revered and envied. But now, that pride felt hollow. She wasn't just a title. She was a piece of me, forged from every lie I had told, every moment I had stolen, and every choice I had made to exploit the weaknesses of others.

And if I was the dragon, then Jake was my Saint George—steadfast, armed with justice and resolve, determined to destroy everything I represented. To him, I wasn't just a thief or a liar—I was the embodiment of everything he fought against. And maybe he was right. Someone had died because of the chain reaction I had set in motion—a ripple of consequences I could never undo.

That was exactly how I felt when I got the call—a chance to interview for my dream job at the MoMA. At first, I was over the moon. It was everything I wanted. But then, that insidious voice in my head whispered the truth I couldn't shake—the life I wanted was never going to work out. Happy endings weren't for people like me. I didn't deserve them.

The voice grew louder, more relentless, until it drowned out everything else. I almost decided not to show up, convincing myself it was a cruel joke, an illusion of a life that wasn't mine to live.

And yet, here I was. Another part of me had clawed its way forward, urging me to fight, to at least try. To not give up on myself just yet.

But the voice still lingered, whispering that I was selfish, evil, irredeemable for even daring to dream of something better. For putting myself first after everything I had done.

But wasn't that what all humans did? Weren't we all driven by self-preservation, that primal instinct to fight for ourselves above all else? After all, giving up on ourselves was as hard as continuing the fight.

I looked back at the painting. The dragon wasn't dead. It writhed and hissed, and maybe its next move would have turned the tables entirely. But this moment, captured forever on canvas, showed only its weakness—its defeat.

A reminder, perhaps, that the story was only ever told from one perspective.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to focus, pushing the storm inside me aside. My gaze shifted to Professor Singh, who patiently waited for my answer.

"Art, Professor, is like a time capsule," I said. "It doesn't just preserve history; it reflects how people saw the world—how they made sense of it, or maybe even how they didn't."

I leaned forward, gesturing toward the painting. "Take Raphael's Saint George, for example. The dragon—it's not just a monster. For some, it might symbolize fear of the unknown, chaos, or rebellion. And Saint George? He's more than just a hero with a lance. He's a symbol of order, faith, and the fight to restore balance. Their battle isn't just about good and evil—it's about confronting what we can't fully understand, about the push and pull between chaos and control."

My gaze drifted briefly back to the painting before returning to Professor Singh. "It's easy to side with Saint George, to see the dragon as the villain. But what if the dragon isn't just destruction? What if it's resilience? Resistance? A misunderstood force, doing what it knows to survive?"

I took a breath, allowing the thought to hang in the air. "That's the beauty of art, Professor—it doesn't give you a single answer. For one person, the dragon might be a menace to conquer. For another, it could embody defiance or the courage to stand against the tide."

Leaning back in my chair, I let my words settle, their weight pressing against my chest. "As educators, it's not our role to dictate meaning but to help people uncover it for themselves. Art is a bridge—to history, to emotion, to each other. And when someone finds a personal connection to a painting centuries old, that's where the magic truly lies."

Professor Singh smiled, his eyes crinkling with approval. "Miss Lawrence, your resume is impressive, but it's your passion that truly shines. Your analysis of Raphael's work? Right on point."

Relief swept over me as he stood, extending a hand. "You'll hear from us in a few days. I have a feeling it will be good news."

I thanked him, shaking his hand. As I left the room, I glanced back at the painting one last time. The dragon's fiery eyes seemed to hold mine, its defiance unbroken. Maybe the line between hero and villain wasn't as clear as the world wanted it to be.

The dragon was still fighting. And so would I.

The bitter steam from the over-roasted coffee clawed at my nostrils, a far cry from the smooth, single-origin brew I usually favored. But today, luxuries didn't matter. Only the mission did.

I sat at a worn plastic table outside a dingy bodega, my gaze fixed on the towering Vitale Corporation building across the street. Its mirrored glass façade reflected the chaos of Manhattan, distorting the city into a fractured, twisted version of itself. It was fitting. This building wasn't just a symbol of power—it was a mask for the tangled web of corruption woven inside.

Vitale had his fingers in every pie imaginable—real estate, shipping, logistics, hospitality. From five-star hotels to luxury cruise lines, his empire glittered on the surface. But underneath, it was rotten to the core, with links to arms trading, illegal trafficking, counterfeiting—and cold-blooded murder.

The decision to go after him hadn't come lightly. This wasn't just about Eric and me anymore. It was about the countless lives Vitale had ruined, and the ones he would continue to destroy if no one stopped him.

How? Honestly, I didn't know. But men like Vitale didn't operate without skeletons in their closets—dirty secrets buried just deep enough to stay hidden. If I could uncover them, expose them, it could all come crashing down.

There wasn't time to map out a perfect plan. An opportunity had presented itself, and desperate as I was, I couldn't afford to let it slip away. So, I jumped.

Desperation wasn't always a weakness. Sometimes, it was fuel. Or so I told myself.

With a grimace, I tossed the lukewarm coffee into a nearby trash can and retrieved a compact mirror from my purse. Today, I was Clara Baldwin—a wealthy heiress and soon-to-be bride with more money than sense. The bright pink designer dress clung too tightly, the diamond on my finger practically blinded, and the wig of long blonde curls completed the look.

"Baldwin. Clara Baldwin," I whispered, the name rolling off my tongue with exaggerated sweetness. After one last adjustment to my lipstick, I straightened my shoulders, plastered on a saccharine smile, and walked toward the building.

Inside, the air-conditioned lobby sparkled with crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors. People in tailored suits bustled around me, their hurried steps a stark contrast to my slow, deliberate sashay.

At the reception desk, a young woman greeted me with a professional smile. "Oh, Ms. Baldwin," she said. "Mr. Davis is waiting for you. He's excited to help you find your dream house."

She signaled for an escort to take me upstairs, and I followed a briskly walking assistant through the lobby to the elevator. Each step heightened my anticipation, my mind already rehearsing the next phase of my plan.

The elevator doors slid open on a floor bathed in natural light from massive windows. A conference room waited ahead, its sleek, modern design softened by touches of warm, earthy tones.

Mr. Davis stood to greet me. His overly polished smile and dramatic hand gestures screamed salesman, but I matched his energy with ease.

"Ms. Baldwin, it's great to finally meet you in person," he said.

"Please, call me Clara," I replied with a bright, practiced smile.

As I moved to sit, I stumbled slightly, feigning embarrassment. Mr. Davis rushed to steady me, oblivious to the moment I swiped his elevator card.

"Oops, sorry about that," I said, brushing my dress down. "These heels, you know. Besides, today is a big day, and I'm feeling a bit nervous."

"No need to apologize," he said, guiding me to the chair. "Think of me as your fairy godfather, here to make your real estate dreams come true."

I forced a chuckle, swallowing my cringe. "That's very kind of you. And I knew from the moment we spoke on the phone that you'd be perfect for the job. Especially since my fiancé, Daniel, couldn't join us today. Always busy with his investments, you know. But I wouldn't have it any other way—a successful fiancé is a very attractive fiancé, wouldn't you agree?"

Mr. Davis chuckled, a sound that resembled gravel crunching underfoot. "Absolutely, Clara! Absolutely."

The slideshow began, a whirlwind tour of properties dripping with luxury. I oohed and aahed in all the right places, flashing rehearsed excitement at penthouses with Central Park views and sprawling Long Island estates with vineyards.

When the screen displayed a townhouse on Cornelia Street in Greenwich Village, Mr. Davis beamed. "This one, Clara, was once rented by a very famous singer. Taylor Swift, I believe."

I couldn't help myself, throwing him a playful wink. "All Too Well-maintained, wouldn't you say?"

He blinked, confused for a moment, before forcing a laugh. "Indeed. Very... well-maintained."

I mentally rolled my eyes at his cluelessness and decided it was enough with the small talk. It was time to move on.

Clutching my stomach dramatically, I muttered, "Oh dear, forgive me, Mr. Davis. But I have a touch of IBS. Would you mind if I excused myself? These designer dresses leave little room for... digestive freedom."

Mr. Davis paled but recovered quickly. "Of course, Clara. The restrooms are just down the hall to the left."

"Thank you," I said with a weak smile. "I'll be quick."

A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that Mr. Davis remained blissfully unaware of the empty keycard case in his pocket, his attention locked on his phone. Good.

I turned sharply, walking in the opposite direction of the bathrooms, my thoughts racing over the blueprints I had memorized in painstaking detail.

Lowering my head, I let the blonde curls of my wig create a veil of anonymity, aware of the cameras that dotted the hallways like unblinking eyes.

When I reached the staff elevator, I swiped Mr. Davis' card with steady hands. The satisfying "click" of the lock releasing sent a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. The doors hissed open, and I stepped inside, hitting the button for the top floor.

Leaning against the wall, I kept my head low, my heart hammering in rhythm with the elevator's ascent. Strategically placed cameras angled outward monitored every move I made. The wig, though uncomfortable, was doing its job, shielding most of my face from detection.

As the elevator chimed at the top floor, the doors slid open to reveal a quiet, carpeted corridor. Stepping out, I slipped on latex gloves and scanned the hallway for guards. Empty. Just as my sources had promised. Vitale was overseas, and the timing of the guard shift was working in my favor—at least for now.

I hurried down the corridor, keeping my head low and carefully weaving through the blind spots I had memorized to avoid the cameras. When I reached Vitale's office door, I quickly set up The Gremlin—Eric's ingenious frequency jammer. This would be its first real test.

If it worked, it would disrupt the security system just enough to buy me time to pick the lock without triggering any alarms. If it didn't... Well, failure wasn't an option I could afford to dwell on right now.

As I activated the jammer, I whispered a silent prayer to Eric's voodoo-like skills, willing the device to live up to the glowing praise he had once sung about it. A faint, almost imperceptible whine signaled that it was online, breaking the oppressive silence of the corridor.

I crouched in front of the door, my tools in hand, and set to work. Years of practice made the motions second nature, muscle memory guiding each turn of the pick. But the stakes weighed heavily on every movement, sharpening the edge of my focus. One slip, one wrong move, and the consequences would be far worse than a jammed lock.

The lock clicked open, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding when no alarms blared. I pushed the door open slowly, careful not to make a sound.

The office was a shrine to Vitale's wealth and ego, the air heavy with the scent of polished mahogany and expensive cologne. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking view of the city, while crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a golden glow. A massive mahogany desk sat at the center, cluttered with gold-plated trinkets that looked more like medieval instruments of torture than office supplies.

My eyes wandered to an oversized oil painting dominating one wall. The scene was gaudy and absurd—a half-dressed woman kneeling before a nobleman dripping in jewels. A laugh bubbled in my throat despite the tension. It was obvious that Vitale's attempt to seem culturally sophisticated had failed miserably.

Shaking my head, I turned my attention to the task at hand. I rifled through the drawers and searched every corner of the office, but there was nothing useful, not even a safe. It struck me as odd, almost suspiciously so.

Frustration gnawed at me. But I already knew Vitale wouldn't leave anything incriminating in plain sight—he was too clever for that.

There had to be a safe somewhere. Think, Emma.

My gaze landed on the painting again. Of course.

I rushed to the wall and hefted the oversized canvas off its hooks, revealing a state-of-the-art safe hidden behind it. My heart sank. It was a reinforced titanium model, one of the most secure on the market. Cracking it with the tools I had on me was out of the question, and time wasn't on my side.

Glancing at my watch, I cursed under my breath. The guards would be back any minute. Grabbing The Gremlin, I stuffed it into my purse and prepared to leave.

Then I heard it—a muffled sound in the hallway. The guards were approaching.

Panic surged through me as I kicked off my heels, knowing their sharp clicks against the floor would have given me away. Clutching them in one hand, I bolted for the emergency stairs, my bare feet barely making a sound on the cold floor.

The stairwell door groaned softly as I pushed through, and I sprinted down the steps, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.

By the time I burst onto the real-state floor, my lungs burned with every ragged gasp. I paused for a split second, leaning against the wall to catch my breath. My wig had shifted slightly, blonde curls falling askew over my face.

I took a moment to compose myself before heading back to the conference room where Mr. Davis was waiting, none the wiser.

"Ms. Baldwin, are you feeling alright?" he asked, frowning. "You look a bit... flushed."

I forced a smile. "Oh, Mr. Davis, I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience. My IBS... it's such a nuisance sometimes. I think some fresh air will do me good. Let's reschedule when my fiancé can join us. He'll want to finalize everything himself."

Relief softened his features. "Of course, Clara. Just let me know when you're ready to continue."

As we shook hands, I smoothly returned his keycard, tucking it back into his jacket pocket. With one last parting smile, I left the building.

Outside, I collapsed onto a bench, the roar of the city melding with the turmoil in my head. My plan had failed spectacularly, and Vitale's secrets remained locked away.

With a sigh, I decided to set aside my pride. Pulling out my phone, I typed a message to Eric.

"I need your help."