EMMA

My best friend, Alycia Barlowe, stared at me, her wide eyes threatening to pop out of her head like a cartoon character. She looked like someone had just told her unicorns were real or that pigs could fly.

Then again, what I had just told her probably sounded just as insane.

Earlier this morning, I was pleasantly surprised when Alycia called to say she was finally back in the States after her business trip overseas. The first thing she did after landing at JFK was hop into a cab straight to my apartment.

Now, she was sitting on the loveseat in my living room, knees bent, feet tucked underneath her. I sat across from her in a sleek modern chair. Between us, coffee cups and pastries were neatly arranged on a tray, untouched. The hum of distant car horns drifted through the window, the only sound breaking the otherwise quiet, lazy day. It was perfect for catching up.

Though clearly, nothing could have prepared Alycia for me dropping the bombshell of my date with a certain FBI agent.

She shook her head, rubbing her eyes like she was trying to wake up from a dream. Then she laughed—a loud, incredulous laugh. "That's a good one, Emma! You had me for a second."

I gave her an unwavering stare. Her laughter faded, and her smile flattened as the realization sank in.

"You're incorrigible," she finally said, shaking her head. "Absolutely incorrigible. Sometimes, I think you forget you're not a real-life Danny Ocean."

"Hmm..." I tapped a finger to my lips, pretending to think. "I see myself more as Catwoman. Minus the leather suit. Usually."

Alycia blinked at me like she didn't know what to do with me, then sighed. "Just tell me he didn't suspect anything."

"Of course not. In fact, I think he's starting to like me."

She rolled her eyes. "You've always been a smooth talker."

"I prefer the term charmingly persuasive."

"Uh-huh, and I suppose that's how you'll convince the jury of your innocence when your game backfires."

The humor drained from her expression, replaced by concern. Under her penetrating gaze, I found myself squirming slightly in my seat.

Fighting off the discomfort, I plastered on my best Cheshire Cat grin. "Come on, Aly. You know I can talk my way out of anything. In six languages."

Her gaze softened, but her voice held steady. "I'm not doubting your skills. I'm just worried about you. This isn't a game, Emma. You're risking everything here."

"Well, the risk is always there," I shot back, my voice louder than I had intended. "It always has been. That's exactly why I went along with this plan—because I'd rather take control than sit around waiting for the other shoe to drop."

I paused, exhaling to steady myself before continuing. "If it goes sideways, fine. Maybe that's life's way of telling me I don't deserve a clean slate. That I need to pay for my sins first. And... maybe I'm ready to accept that."

I could see a mix of concern and understanding in Alycia's hazel eyes. She reached across the table and took my hand in hers.

"You're not a bad person, Emma," she said gently. "Never have been. And you deserve to be happy. You're one of the most talented people I know. You could do anything you set your mind to, and if anyone can make this second chance work, it's you."

Then she scrunched up her nose and sent me a wry smile. "Besides, you can't get caught. Orange is definitely not your color."

A chuckle escaped me, breaking the tension. "Well, I'd rather not find out, but I'm pretty sure I could pull off the whole prison chic look."

The easy banter was back, and with it came a wave of gratitude. Alycia had a way of grounding me, pulling me out of my head when I needed it most.

My mind drifted back to the day I first met Alycia. It was a hot summer afternoon, and we were just kids—barely into our teenage years.

My family had just returned to New York after a long crime spree in Europe. On that particular day, Eric and I had fought about something I couldn't even remember now. Maybe it was because our fights weren't out of the ordinary. Bickering came naturally to us, and we always patched things up quickly, diving back into whatever mischievous plan we were cooking up.

But that day, I was so angry that I stormed out of the house we were renting and went to the park alone. That was where I spotted Alycia for the first time. She was sitting on a bench, her small frame hunched over, her eyes swollen and puffy.

Without a second thought, I walked up to her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, asking if she was okay.

She was wary at first, but then she warmed up to me and opened up. Between sniffles, she told me about her mom, who had passed away recently, and her dad, who wasn't coping well with the loss and had turned to alcohol.

I couldn't quite remember how I had managed to convince her to come home with me, but the next thing I knew, she was sitting at our dining table with my family.

From that day forward, something shifted in both of our lives. My parents took Alycia under their wing. They supported her emotionally and financially, helping her with school, making sure she had enough to eat, and giving her a warm place to stay whenever she needed it. They even brought her along on a few of our safer trips.

Thinking back, I smiled. My parents weren't perfect—far from it—but they had always been willing to help those they thought needed it.

Despite our differences, the bond between Alycia and me only grew stronger over the years. Even after learning about my family's unconventional lifestyle, she never wavered in her loyalty to us. And I knew that no matter what, we would always have each other's backs, just like that summer day when we first met.

As we grew older, I watched Alycia blossom into a confident, independent woman. She worked hard and carved a name for herself in the fashion world.

With her glowing bronze skin, striking features, heart-shaped lips, and captivating hazel eyes, she had all the makings of a supermodel. But Alycia wasn't interested in being in front of the camera.

Her passion had always been writing—especially about fashion. So, she became a fashion journalist and worked her way up to a notable magazine, preferring to craft the narrative instead of being part of someone else's story.

"Enough about me," I said, snapping out of my thoughts. "Tell me about Paris. How was your trip?"

Alycia's face lit up. "Paris was incredible. The weather, the architecture, the food—everything."

"And the men," I added.

Alycia grinned. "Especially the men."

I laughed. "And how's work? Is your boss still acting like Miranda Priestly?"

"Actually, I think Miranda would be a walk in the park compared to him," Alycia said with a sigh. "No, scratch that—he's like Miranda on steroids. He's always demanding the impossible and expects me to read his mind half the time."

"Well," I said, leaning back with a smirk, "if you want to mess with him, we could get Eric to hack his phone and swap all his contacts with designers who specialize in shoulder pads and crocs."

Alycia burst out laughing. "Honestly, I think all I'd have to do is send him a picture of his current hairstyle. That would probably do the trick."

As the laughter faded, I noticed something hesitant in her expression, like there was something she wanted to say but wasn't sure how to.

She tucked a strand of her long, dark-brown hair behind her ear and looked at me. "Hey, speaking of Eric, how is he doing? I haven't seen him in a while."

A small smile tugged at my lips as I caught the sheepish look on her face. I had always suspected there was something between her and Eric, though neither of them had ever made a move.

"He's—" I began, but the sound of a key turning in the apartment door interrupted me.

As if on cue, Eric walked in. He froze when he saw Alycia, his eyes widening briefly before a slow smile spread across his face.

"Aly! What a surprise," he said, crossing the room to give her a quick hug.

I didn't miss the way Alycia blushed as she stammered out a greeting.

Watching the two of them was almost comical. I could understand why Alycia hadn't made a move—she wasn't the type to wear her heart on her sleeve. But Eric? He had never been shy about going after what he wanted. So why was he holding back? Did he think she was out of his league? Too good for him?

Anyway, being the fabulous sister and best friend I was, I decided to put on Cupid's little wings and get to work.

"Hey," I said, drawing their attention. "Since Aly's in town, we should all grab dinner together—just like old times."

"That sounds great," Eric said, glancing at Alycia with a hopeful expression.

"Yes! I'd love that," Alycia replied, her voice a little higher than usual. "But I have an article deadline coming up in the next few days. Can we plan it for next week?"

"Of course," I said smoothly, already scheming. They didn't need to know I had zero intention of tagging along to that dinner.

Alycia started gathering her things, mentioning something about her boss and how she didn't want to push her luck. I walked her to the door, pulling her into a tight hug. "It was so good to see you, Aly."

"You too, Em." She smiled, then glanced over my shoulder at Eric. "See you both next week."

As the door shut behind her, I turned around to find Eric already sprawled on the loveseat, looking far too comfortable. I crossed my arms and gave him a knowing smirk.

"What?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You know what."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

He shot me a glare, the kind that said drop it, but I just chuckled and sat down.

The playful atmosphere didn't last long. Eric leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression suddenly serious. "We need to talk," he said.

I frowned, feeling that I wasn't going to like what he was about to tell me.

"I sold the painting."

Anger flared in me instantly. "You mean the one I told you not to sell?" I snapped, throwing my hands up. "The one that's still hot and could put us in so much trouble we'd never crawl out of it?"

"Emma, relax," he said, his tone far too calm for my liking. "I handled it. And we made good money."

I blinked, trying to keep my composure. "What do you mean by 'good money'?"

"I sold it for five million dollars." He grinned, but his smile faded quickly when he realized I wasn't sharing in his triumph.

Right now, the black market was quicksand—unstable and treacherous. That painting was a ticking time bomb, and I knew Eric wouldn't have gotten that kind of price from a regular fence. That meant he sold it to someone who had been specifically looking for it.

And that narrowed things down to two possibilities: a private collector or someone deeply involved in shady business—drugs, weapons, or worse.

Eric and I had rules. We didn't deal with people like that. Ever.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Eric," I said, my voice low, "who did you sell it to?"

"What difference does it make?" he shot back. "We've got the money, and I'm sure your boyfriend won't be able to trace the painting."

The heat in my chest flared into full-blown rage. "Maybe because we don't keep secrets from each other? Especially ones this big?"

Eric scoffed, leaning back. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you. Who was it that jumped off that train first, Emma?"

His words hit like a punch to the gut. Was this payback? Did he do this to get back at me for Jake?

The anger in his voice was gone as quickly as it came. His expression softened, regret clouding his blue eyes. He let out a loud sigh, rubbing his face with his hands before standing up abruptly. Without another word, he walked toward his room.

At the door, he paused, his back to me. "Don't overthink it, Em. I knew what I was doing. It's over."

And with that, he disappeared, the sound of his door slamming behind him echoing through the apartment.

I sank into the nearest chair, my hands trembling slightly as I pressed them to my temples. The room felt impossibly quiet, the silence heavy and suffocating—like the calm before a storm.

And I knew, deep down, that when the storm hit, there would be no going back.