EMMA

If anybody asked Eric about my life choices, he would probably say that logic means nothing to me, even though I like to pretend otherwise—and very well, at that.

Walking into a fire doesn't necessarily mean getting burned.

That had been my motto for as long as I could remember. It wasn't about avoiding the flames—it was about learning to dance through them without getting scorched. And in that, I liked to think I was an expert...

Wrapping my fingers around my cup of coffee brought a sweet heat to my palms. The brew was smooth, with just the right balance of acidity and cream.

No wonder he liked this coffee shop so much.

Setting the cup back on the table, I let my gaze drift across the room. Conversation buzzed in the air, mingling with the clink of ceramic mugs and the faint hum of the espresso machine. A woman typed furiously on her laptop, her brows furrowed in concentration. A man near the window flipped a page of his novel with one hand while sipping coffee with the other.

Humans are strange creatures. Even in solitude, we often craved the proximity of others—to overhear fragments of conversations, to exist within a shared space. It worked as a quiet reassurance, a subconscious reminder that we were part of something bigger. A tribe. A society.

And no matter how hard I pretended otherwise, I was no different. So, I allowed my primitive brain a little of what it craved, just enough to keep me grounded for what I had to do next.

But maybe my dread was unnecessary, after all. The reason for my anxiety hadn't even walked through the door yet.

I glanced at my wristwatch, frowning. He was late.

I thought FBI agents were supposed to be punctual, sticklers for and all that. Maybe he had been called to the office early. Maybe he had an emergency.

Or maybe this was the universe giving me an out. A chance to gather my things, slip out the door, and avoid the grave mistake I was about to make.

But I was here for a reason. I needed to get close to him—to make sure he had no leads, no crumbs he could follow back to me.

For weeks, Special Agent Jake Parker had been a recurring figure in my nightmares, and, for some inexplicable reason, my dreams, too.

When I asked Eric to dig up intel, what he uncovered only made things worse. Parker wasn't just any agent—he was a rising star in the bureau. He had received specialized training from the FBI's Art Theft Program at Quantico and was now stationed in the White-Collar Crime division of the New York field office.

And despite his young age, he had already built a reputation that had heads turning. His case closure and conviction rates were impressive enough to make anyone in his field jealous.

He wasn't just competent—he was relentless. And relentless people were dangerous.

In my line of work, I had always seen life as a game of chess—unpredictable, chaotic, and all about the long game. Every move demanded precision—predicting your opponent's next steps, reading their intent, and knowing exactly when to strike.

But the thing about chess—it had brutal rules. You could never undo mistakes, and being two moves ahead of your opponent meant nothing if they were already ahead of three.

And I had a sinking feeling Jake Parker was the kind of opponent who was always three steps ahead...

I exhaled slowly, shook my head to clear the fog, and turned my focus to the present.

Lost in thought, I had completely forgotten about the food I had ordered. Picking up my Cheese Danish, I took a bite and grimaced—it had gone cold.

I stood up and carried it to the counter. The barista—an older woman with tired eyes and a soft smile—glanced up as I approached. There was a glimmer in her expression, a rare kindness that couldn't be faked.

I prided myself on being good at reading people. Tone of voice, body language, micro-expressions—it was all there if you knew where to look. And this woman? She had one of those resilient souls, the kind that refused to dim no matter how hard life tried to snuff it out.

"Could you warm this up for me? And maybe a coffee refill?" I smiled faintly. "Sorry, I'm just feeling like being a bit of a fusspot today."

Her eyes brightened, a warm smile spreading across her face as her lips parted slightly, ready to say something. But the soft jingle of the bell above the front door cut her off, and I watched her smile widen even further as the new customer stepped inside.

Even with my back to the door, I felt a chill as the newcomer approached the counter. He finally came to a stop beside me, and the moment I heard his voice, my heart skipped a beat.

"Morning, Cora," he said in an all too familiar deep voice. "Looking as lovely as ever."

Cora grinned while working on heating my food. "Always the charmer, Jake. You're late, though; I thought you weren't coming today."

I heard Jake scoffing beside me before he said, "You know I can't start my day without a cup of coffee from your special brew. How's Mike doing?"

I watched as Cora's face relaxed at the mention of Mike—whoever he was. And there was a smidge of joy in her eyes when she replied, "He's been avoiding trouble, thankfully. Keeping himself busy with college applications."

"He's a good kid. But if he ever needs another pep talk, you know where to find me."

Cora's smile softened. "Thank you, Jake. You're the best."

I suddenly felt like an intruder in their easy, familiar exchange, but my feet felt cemented to the floor, and I feared any attempt to move would result in them failing entirely.

Cora brought me back to reality by placing a warm plate and a fresh cup of coffee in front of me.

"Here's your food, sweetheart. And don't ever worry about being a fusspot." She winked.

An unexpected laugh escaped me. "Thanks for indulging my fusspotism. I needed that."

However, the second the words left my mouth, I realized I had forgotten something very important. I froze again and felt my heart racing in my chest. What if he recognized my voice?

"Bad day?"

I heard Mr. FBI Agent asking, and I jumped a little. I swallowed down the tension in my chest and steeled myself before finally looking at him. But as soon as I did, my breath caught in my throat.

Holy smokes.

I had seen his photo, so I knew he was handsome. But now, seeing him in person, handsome felt criminally insufficient.

His eyes were a shade of jade green I had never seen before, like sunlight filtering through leaves. They held a quiet intensity, drawing you in before you realized you had been caught staring.

His hair, a tousled mix of chestnut, gold, and auburn, managed to look both intentionally styled and effortlessly wild. A neatly groomed stubble framed his sharp jawline, softening the otherwise striking edges of his features.

And the suit—damn. A tailored navy-blue ensemble paired with a gray coat that hugged his broad shoulders just right. It was a far cry from the trademark Brooks Brothers suits most agents seemed to favor.

I met his eyes and noticed he was watching me, brows slightly raised, waiting for me to respond.

Right. Talking. That's a thing people do.

I cleared my throat, forced on a smile, and shrugged lightly before reaching for my coffee. "Well, there's a reason they say, 'a bad day with coffee is better than a good day without it.'"

His mouth quirked into a smile as he lifted his Styrofoam cup. "I'll drink to that. But they also say, 'a day is neither bad nor good—it's our attitude that makes it so.'"

A genuine, amused smile flickered across my face. "What are you, some kind of pep-talk guru?"

He let out a small chuckle. "Well, I usually try my best. But I've been having many bad days lately, so you can consider me an expert on that, too."

My smile faltered slightly. Could I be the reason for those bad days?

I studied him for a moment and couldn't help but notice there was a warmth about him, an openness in his expression that felt... honest. Uncomplicated.

For a brief, stupid second, guilt prickled in my chest. I quickly reminded myself that he was a rival, an enemy. It was either him or me.

Forcing myself to focus again, I said, "Well, I've heard good company can make anything more tolerable. So, would you like to join me for coffee?"

He beamed. "I'd love that."

I grabbed my plate with my free hand and walked back to my table, Mr. FBI agent following closely behind.

When we both sat down, I looked at him thoughtfully. I needed to get him to talk to me about the case somehow, or at least make sure this wasn't going to be the last time we met.

I took a sip of coffee, then asked casually, "So, what's been causing all these bad days? Problems with your better half?"

The corners of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "No, I'm not seeing anyone at the moment. It's very much work-related." Then he held out his hand toward me. "Where are my manners? I'm Jake, by the way."

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing my hand in his. "Emma."

I wasn't worried about him knowing my real first name—or my last, for that matter. The secret word here was identity farming, which most people considered a myth, but my parents turned it into a reality for Eric's sake and mine.

From birth, they built airtight identities for us—clean, untouchable, and entirely separate from theirs. Emma and Eric Lawrence.

As we grew up, they applied for Social Security numbers in our name, gave us bank accounts and library cards, and even filed for tax returns. This was how we got homeschooled and eventually received our college degrees.

So, if anyone ever dug into our lives, they would find nothing but two perfectly ordinary, law-abiding citizens. No loose threads, no paper trail, and certainly no connection tying us back to them.

Clearing my throat, I met Jake's gaze again, a casual smile tugging at my lips. It was time to steer the conversation where I needed it to go.

"So, Jake, what do you do for a living?"

Before he could answer, I raised a finger, cutting him off with a playful smirk. "No, hold on. Don't tell me." I squinted slightly, pretending to study him as if solving an impossible puzzle. "Hmm... Official attire, stressful work environment. If I had to guess, I'd say you're one of those Wall Street boys."

"Hardly." Jake scoffed. His eyes gleamed with quiet pride as he said, "I'm an FBI agent. I work in the White-Collar Crime division."

Even though I had expected those words, they still made my heart quiver. I raised my brows, feigning surprise. "An FBI agent, huh?" A playful smile tugged at my lips. "But wait... are you even allowed to tell me that?"

He laughed. "That level of super secrecy is reserved for the CIA and the NSA. I'm just your friendly neighborhood FBI agent." He shrugged, smirking. "So, what about you?"

This could be my in. I took a sip of my coffee and mumbled, "I'm an artist."

I watched as his eyes sparkled with interest.

"That's fascinating," he said. "I happen to be very interested in art, too. Sometimes, I even get to investigate art crimes, and I helped recover a piece or two of priceless artwork."

A piece or two. I bit back an eye roll. From what Eric and I had learned about him, Agent Parker had been instrumental in recovering over fifty million dollars' worth of stolen art. Modesty, it seemed, was among his long list of virtues.

Despite being well-versed in the inner workings of most major law enforcement agencies, I looked at him with a perplexed expression. "But you said your specialty was white-collar crimes. What does that have to do with art?"

He took a sip of his coffee and seemed to be in deep thought, probably figuring out how to explain the linings of the criminal world to me in simple terms.

"Art crime is the third largest criminal enterprise in the world, after drugs and weapons. These crimes are... complex. Different in nature, regulation, and liability. But art forgery, for instance—creating fake masterpieces and selling them as originals—falls under fraud and white-collar crime."

I nodded slowly, letting the information settle. But then, I decided to ask one of the many questions that have been burning on my tongue out of curiosity more than anything. "Is it true these kinds of crimes are victimless?"

He shook his head almost immediately. "That's a common misconception. People don't realize the illegal art trade funds almost every type of organized crime—human trafficking, terrorism, you name it. And even if there's no direct victim, cultural heritage loss makes every single one of us a victim."

His words hit harder than I expected. I wasn't a saint—I knew that better than anyone.

But I had always drawn lines, set boundaries. There were jobs I had refused, deals I had walked away from, because I couldn't stomach the collateral damage. Children losing their homes. Families being left with nothing.

Others in my profession saw this as weakness—a sentimental flaw. But I liked to think of it as a shred of my moral compass, a thread of decency I stubbornly clung to.

And yet... hearing Jake speak about it so plainly made those boundaries feel thinner, more fragile.

"So, what made you want to be an artist?"

Jake's question brought my train of thought to a halt. I swallowed hard, forcing down the sudden unwanted emotion, and took a moment to gather my thoughts.

"Are you familiar with Ilya Repin?" I finally asked.

He nodded. "He painted Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan."

"The great Ivan Vasilyevich. The first Tsar of Russia, cradling his dead son."

"The son he murdered," Jake added.

I gave him a slight nod. "It's considered one of the most vandalized paintings in history. Do you know what happened to it?"

He took another sip of his coffee before saying, "Some. Abram Balashov, an Old Russian Believer, was so disturbed by the painting that he slashed the faces multiple times before they got to him. And recently, a man smashed the painting with a metal pole."

"Balashov was mentally ill, yet it was a painting—a picture—that pushed him over the edge. There are even persistent rumors that some people have tried to take their own lives after seeing it."

Jake's green eyes stayed locked on mine. There was a quiet curiosity in his gaze, and I knew he was waiting for me to continue.

I gave him a small, apologetic smile. "I didn't mean for our conversation to take such a grim turn. But my point is... imagine having that kind of power. To create something that digs right into a person's soul and stirs something raw and uncontrollable."

I paused, my fingers brushing the rim of my coffee cup. "I believe art is alchemical, magical. Artists take raw materials—an idea, hope, grief, a dream—and transform them into something sublime. Something powerful enough to endure for centuries."

There was a distant, faraway look in my eyes as the words left my mouth. They were honest, pulled straight from my core. But guilt clawed at me as I finished speaking.

I was an art thief, after all. A fraud. How could I possibly speak about art's beauty and power when I was the one stealing pieces of it for profit?

I sighed inwardly, letting my gaze drift back to the man across from me. He was leaning back in his chair, a soft smile playing on his lips, and his deep, expressive eyes held a warmth that felt both genuine and almost disarming. Almost.

"I couldn't agree more," he finally said. But before he could say anything else, his phone buzzed against the table.

Jake sighed as he glanced at the screen, disappointment flickering across his face. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but instead, he shook his head slightly.

"Do you have to get to work?"

"Yeah," he said with a reluctant groan. "But I really enjoyed talking to you. I think we should do this again sometime."

You bet.

I fought back a smirk and nodded instead. "That sounds nice."

His face brightened, a smile stretching wide enough to crinkle the corners of his jade eyes. He pulled a sleek business card from his coat pocket and held it out to me. "This has my personal number on it. I'd love to hear from you."

I took the card, careful not to let our fingers brush, and slipped it into my pocket.

He stood up and ensured his clothes were in order, and I noticed his hands brushing the side of his coat around waist level. Most likely a habit he had created to make sure that his firearm was constantly on him.

He then extended his hand again to me with a sweet-natured smile. "It was lovely meeting you, Emma."

To my surprise, a genuine smile made its way to my lips as I put my hand in his. "Likewise, Jake."

He turned to Cora, offered her a warm goodbye, and then stepped out into the cold.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty space he had left behind. My Danish had gone cold again, and the weight of what I had just done settled heavily on my shoulders.

I had struck the match. The fire was lit. And there was no turning back now.

Letting out a slow breath, I stood, dumped the cold Danish into the trash, and walked to the door.

The winter chill hit me like a slap to the face, cutting through my coat and burrowing into my bones.

As I walked home, my mind raced, replaying every word, every glance, every flicker of emotion in those jade-green eyes.

And one thought kept circling back, anchoring itself in the forefront of my mind—no matter how skilled I was at this game, every move carried a risk.

Even the best chess players know—you can't make every move without risking checkmate.