EMMA

At Christmas time, the concrete jungle of New York always lights up and wows the masses. Streets fill with festive cheer, music floats in the air, the Rockefeller tree dazzles, and stores overflow with frantic shoppers.

It's, indeed, the happiest time of the year—but also the busiest.

Which made it the perfect time for a daring heist at one of the most secure museums in the world. Especially when said museum was hosting a private gallery that no one was supposed to know about...

I checked my wristwatch, feeling like the night was holding its breath—just like me.

My gaze drifted over the room until it landed on my target—Bruce Huxley, the Met's Chief Executive Officer. He was seated at a table, engaged in an animated conversation with some of New York's socialites.

After they pretended to admire the artwork on display, the elite retreated to the dining lounge for champagne and chatter. It was clear most of them didn't even care about art. What they truly valued was having their names on an exclusive invite, granting them access to something others couldn't have.

The New York elite were just as outrageous as they were fascinating to watch, their world so far removed from reality it was almost laughable. And the fact that the Met had shut its doors for an entire night just to cater to their egos made the heist all the more satisfying. I couldn't wait to teach them a valuable lesson—one worth five million dollars.

I shook my head and forced myself to regain focus. Balancing the tray of champagne glasses with one hand, I slipped through the crowd with practiced ease, my expression neutral, and my movements precise.

I knew it would have looked suspicious if I had just walked right up to Huxley, so I took my time mingling among the people around the lounge, offering glasses of champagne and taking empty ones away.

Socialites barely glanced my way, their gazes sliding past the 'miserable server' as if I were part of the decor. Perfect.

I was aiming to go unnoticed, making sure that by the end of the night, no one would remember what I looked like. As an extra precaution, my medium-length hair was styled in a way that hid most of my face.

Once I thought it had been a decent amount of time, I finally weaved my way through a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns.

When I reached the table where the Chief was seated, I took one of the full glasses off the tray and held it in my hand while the other still supported the tray. Then suddenly, I stumbled forward—just enough to make it look accidental.

The glass slipped from my hand, its golden contents splashing all over Huxley's designer suit.

"Oh my god. Sir, I'm so sorry," I gasped, my voice trembling with feigned panic. I placed the tray on the table and grabbed a handful of napkins. "Here, let me help."

While pretending to help him clean his suit, I put one hand under the flap of his jacket and held it as if to get better leverage to wipe off the champagne. Then, my smooth fingers reached for his keycard, unhooking it from his inner breast pocket.

He didn't seem angry so much as surprised at first. But then his face flushed red when he glanced around and realized we had drawn too much unwanted attention.

He grabbed my wrist. "That's enough," he growled through clenched teeth.

Luckily, I had already hidden the keycard between the napkins.

"What's your name?"

"Amanda. Amanda Wilson, sir," I answered, making sure my tone was accompanied by a hint of despair and, even better—fear.

He finally released me with a disgusted shake of the head, turning back to smooth things with his guests.

Poor Amanda Wilson was getting fired for sure. Good thing she doesn't exist.

With a barely restrained smirk, I picked up the tray again, put the wet napkins on it, and then rushed to the exit door. But the sudden flash of a camera made me freeze in my footsteps.

Wide-eyed, I glanced behind me. A photographer was snapping shots of the guests, the camera lens sweeping dangerously close to me.

All night, I made sure that none of the security cameras captured my face, and later Eric would deal with the security footage. But we never expected the presence of a photographer...

Panic clawed at the edges of my focus, but I forced it down. Eric and I would have to deal with this issue later. For now, I had to keep moving.

Eric could see everything happening around the museum, so he must have noticed that I had gotten the keycard, and it was almost showtime.

I slipped into the staff room and, once certain no one was watching, pocketed the keycard hidden between the napkins. Then, I approached the event supervisor.

"Bathroom Break?" I asked sweetly.

He sighed and waved me off. "Make it quick."

I disappeared into the staff restroom and smiled when I found it was empty. I put my ear to the door and held my breath, waiting for Eric to work his wonders.

Seconds later, an alarm blared through the building, followed by the panicked voices of guests and staff as they rushed toward the exits.

A few days earlier, Eric had sneaked into the museum disguised as an elevator technician to fix a suspicious issue with the elevators. While there, he planted several small smoke bombs—undetectable, yet enough to trigger the fire alarm when needed.

The smoke was harmless, of course, designed only to buy us time. I had about twenty minutes before it fully dissipated and the security guards stormed back in—fully armed and furious.

A second alarm that I had also been expecting went off. It wasn't as loud as the fire alarm, but it was twice as menacing.

Fire-suppression system will be activated in ten, nine, eight...

This was the Met, after all, and they certainly couldn't just put out a fire with a common garden hose. So instead, they had a state-of-the-art fire protection system designed to suck all the oxygen out.

Digging into my pocket, I pulled out a small breathing device that was supposed to buy me a few precious minutes of air if anything went wrong. Please, Eric, don't let anything go wrong.

I clutched the device tightly, the monotonous alarm warning drilling into my ears like a ticking countdown.

Six, five...

A voice in my brain reassured me that Eric was in control of the entire system. And Eric always knew what he was doing.

Well, he had to, or else I was going to suffocate.

Three, two, on—

The alarm finally went silent, and all I could hear was the sound of my racing heartbeats. I let out a shaky breath and forced myself to get my act together. I couldn't waste any more time.

After making sure the hall outside the restroom was empty, I slipped out and hurried to a specific elevator. Once I was in, I pressed the button to the third floor, where the gallery was located.

When the door closed, I climbed onto the metal railing and removed one of the ceiling panels. There it was—the backpack that Eric had hidden for me.

I grabbed it and slung it over my shoulder before putting the panel back in place. I noticed a security camera in the elevator, but I wasn't concerned. Eric was currently controlling all the security cameras, ensuring that whoever was watching the live feed would see nothing but deserted halls.

The elevator stopped, and as the doors slid open, I glanced both ways to make sure the hall was empty. Satisfied, I stepped out and headed for the gallery, the blueprints etched clearly in my mind.

When I reached the gallery, I was met by a locked door that demanded access. I got out the keycard I had stolen earlier from Huxley and swiped it. It wasn't enough.

A small metal slit slid open, revealing a thumbprint scanner that was necessary to open the door.

Opening my backpack, I pulled out a small black box containing a latex fingerprint belonging to no other than Bruce Huxley. It was surprisingly easy how one could extract fingerprints from discarded coffee cups.

I pressed the latex fingerprint over my thumb and placed it against the scanner. A satisfied smile tugged at my lips as the screen blinked: Access Granted.

Eric was a true technological virtuoso. His voice echoed in my head, "Masks and hoods are so passé, Em. We've got high tech now—we can pull off our Robin Hood thing from anywhere with an internet connection."

It almost made me feel sorry for all those years I'd spent mastering lock-picking and safe-cracking. My extraordinary skills were starting to feel... underappreciated.

But now wasn't the time to dwell on the magic of technology. I slipped on a pair of black gloves and stepped into the gallery.

I paused for a moment, awestruck by the mesmerizing Van Gogh paintings surrounding me. But time wasn't on my side, and I quickly turned to the one I came for.

I knew there were pressure sensors hidden behind the painting, ready to trigger an alarm if it was removed.

Pulling a piece of clay from my bag, I worked it between my fingers until it was pliable, then carefully placed small pieces over each sensor.

I held my breath as I lifted the painting free—and only exhaled when nothing happened.

The next step was trickier. Removing the painting from its frame wasn't child's play—it required precision, a steady hand, and nerves of steel. One wrong move, and the canvas could tear. Luckily, I had all three.

My fingers moved carefully and skillfully along the painting's corners. When I freed the final edge and lifted the canvas from its frame without a single scratch, I glanced at my wristwatch. Time was running out.

Pulling out a cylinder-shaped container that was bent in my backpack, I placed the carefully rolled-up canvas inside it. Then, I put the empty frame back in its original place and slipped out of the gallery without wasting another second.

After making sure I left nothing behind, I closed the door again with the keycard. It was as if I had never been there. They wouldn't know what had hit them until they discovered they had a missing painting.

I checked if the coast was clear before walking back to the elevator, and this time, I pressed the button to the last floor, which led to the rooftop.

So far, everything had gone according to plan, and I hoped the night wasn't hiding any surprises up its sleeve.

I climbed the short stairs to the roof. Before I walked in, I used a pager to send Eric a signal that meant I was ready for the last part of the plan.

I waited for a few seconds, then after taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped onto the roof. The cold night air hit me like a sharp blade, stealing my breath for a moment.

Eric had cut the power to the block across the street, but New York was never truly dark. Faint glows from distant skyscrapers and the soft shimmer of the skyline painted scattered shadows across the rooftop.

Still, Eric had taken care of the most crucial lights—the ones that could expose me. I was nothing more than a silhouette, blurred and unrecognizable in the dim haze.

But the blackout wouldn't last long. I needed to move fast.

I pulled a rope from my backpack and began tying knots, double-checking each one to ensure it would hold my weight. The climbing harness was already strapped securely around me.

Grabbing the rope, I was about to make my way down toward a quiet side street off East 83rd, where Eric was waiting in our getaway car. But then, a voice cut through the night, making my blood run cold.

"Freeze! FBI!"

Of course, hearing those two words was never part of the plan. My mind faltered for a split second, scrambling for the next move.

Slowly, I turned around. A shadow stood a few feet away, gun aimed straight at me—or rather, at my silhouette. Thankfully, he couldn't see my face.

"Stop. There's nowhere for you to go."

I smirked faintly. There's always somewhere to go.

"Sorry, Agent, but I'll have to disagree."

Before he could react, I clipped the rope's carabiner to my harness and stepped off the edge.

The wind roared in my ears, tearing at my clothes and drowning out his shouted words. But he didn't fire—and for that, I was thankful.

The moment my feet hit the pavement, I unhooked the harness and sprinted to the waiting car.

"Go!" I yelled, jumping in.

Without hesitation, Eric slammed on the gas, and the car tore into the night, leaving the museum—and Mr. FBI Agent—behind us.