19 | The Heist

VERA

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I WOKE UP IN HIS ARMS TODAY.

At first I thought it was all a dream, but somehow the world wasn't against me this time. Everything was real. I pretended to be asleep when he woke up, hoping just to lay there in the moment for a few seconds longer, but when he finally awoke, he seemed to have read my mind. Chuckling to himself, he rolled out of bed.

He knew me too well.

And now I was watching him stand there—near the window of his apartment, his eyes cast down upon the city he called home, the sunlight casting tiny freckles across his bare skin, the messy strands of his hair that fell over his face like waves—and I felt as if I'd been describing him for a lack of better words. I called him perfect, ethereal, and sometimes even unattainable.

But seeing him now, I realized he was so much more than that.

So much more than words could ever explain, and so much more than any thought could do justice, because Timothée was everything. He was every single word in the dictionary that touched upon beauty, and it filled me with insurmountable pride to sit on the edge of his bed and to look upon his sublimity so easily.

I love him.

But when I tell him I do, I'm scared he won't say it back. Yesterday he told me he hadn't known what it was like to be loved by someone since the year his parents died, but he never said if he knew what it was like to love someone.

I wondered if he was too scared to mention that part.

Reaching over to his bedside table, I flipped over my phone to see a message from Toni lit up on the screen brightly. I had texted her the night before to let her know I was staying the night at Timothée's, careful not to make my previous mistake again, but she hadn't responded until now.

Hell yes, girl, thanks for letting me know, she had written back, followed by a, but who topped?

Ignoring that message as soon as I saw it, I resisted the urge to throw my phone across the room in embarrassment. Toni was blunt, if you haven't noticed. Sometimes a little too much. I tossed my phone anyways.

At the sound of my phone hitting the mattress, Timothée's eyes flickered over to my side of the room, curiosity dancing in his mind.

"Toni?" He asked.

"Toni," I nodded.

It was like he didn't need to read the message in order to know what it was. In the months I had grown to know him, I'd learned he possessed the talent of reading people. Anyone, not just me. I could see it in the way he scanned a person when he first met them, and the way he'd mimic the little things they did as if he was trying to understand them.

I remembered him being so quick with wit when he first met Toni in the bakery. She'd given him an uncouth attitude, to which he matched almost instantly. He was a chameleon of personalities, changing his aura as if he was scared to show his true self.

But I've seen his true self.

It was the boy I saw in his reflection, everytime he stood in front of a shard of glass. Timothée, Timothée, Timothée, am I the only one who knows you? Am I the only one left that knows you? Looking upon you is like keeping a secret, and I wouldn't tell it to the world, because I wanted it for myself. Love can be selfish, sometimes.

"C'est l'heure," he whispered from the window, pushing his hair from his eyes, "It's time."

I heard an invisible timer start to tick in the back of my mind.

Tick, tick, tick, it went loudly. I'd heard it many times before, always leading up to something either disastrous or grand. Tick, tick, tick. I know what it's leading up to now.

The Heist.

The funny thing about time, is that it passes quickly when you least want it to. What was actually hours felt like seconds from that moment in his apartment, because all of a sudden the world felt burry and rushed.

I could barely recount the exact details of leaving Timothée's place, to somehow end up at Avery's, where he shoved me into a dress he bought a few days ago. If I wasn't wearing it at this exact moment, I probably wouldn't even remember the color.

Next, I was being buckled into the backseat of a car, hearing words coming out of Sam's mouth, but not understanding much. Blend in—he said at one point—back door, office, distraction, mingle. I was trying to peace all of it together, but I could barely hear him over the pounding of my own heart.

It was the fear, I think, that was doing this. I was dreading the moment it began, but eagerly awaiting the moment it was over. This was real, there was no turning back. The future was a black hole that had the power to suck everything away from me if I made a wrong move.

Timothée tried to be supportive, holding my hand as we drove, but it wasn't in his nature. His words of comfort sounded more like advice, and I knew I couldn't follow it even if I tried. I was going into this blind, masked by the cloth of my own misjudgment.

Driving, driving, driving, we went, passing through the buildings and landmarks in a hazy blur. I counted the places I recognized like a timer. The Bakery, we were almost there, the bank by the university, towards the end of town, the marketplace, we were almost near the edge of the city. I kept careful notice of my surroundings, waiting for the timer to come to an end, where I would be—

—standing outside the steps of a French Villa, wearing a dress that didn't belong to me, and using a name that wasn't my own.

And it was time to begin.

The night air of Paris seemed hotter than usual, a humid breath surrounding me as I carefully made my way up the stairs and towards the front door. People of all ages, mostly people pushing their 60s, were getting out of sleek cars, grabbing the arms of their date, muttering things in French that sounded posh and proper. I was a fish swimming downstream in a river of the wealthy.

At the front door stood two men with obtuse muscles, sharp suits and stone-cold faces scanning the crowd.

"Votre nom s'il vous plaît?" The one on the right asked. When I gave him a blank look, he cleared his throat. "Your name?"

I gave him my best smile (which wasn't very good). "Rebecca Lilac."

His eyes traced down the list, his thumb tapping the brown clipboard as he tried to match my words to the name on the paper. My head was filled with intrusive thoughts as I stood there, a line gathering behind me as I waited. What if my name wasn't on the list? Would they drag me off the premises? Did Timothée's Uncle forget to add me as a guest? It seemed endless.

But finally, the man nodded his head.

"Welcome, Miss Lilac," he said, motioning for the other man to push open the mahogany doors, "please enjoy yourself."

As the giant panes of thick wood were pushed aside, I was greeted with the warm glow of firelight streaming in from the entrance hall. It was like walking into an Austen novel, prepared to meet my betrothed through a dance of two lovers. However, I wasn't here for 'love', I was here to help someone steal, and my 'betrothed' was actually the thief who was waiting at the back door for me to let him in.

Gathering the fabric of my dress into my hands, I lifted it slightly to give my feet better ease as I began to stride through the crowd of people.

Music was playing from an orchestra at the far end of the room—a cheerful tune, although people seemed more concerned holding champagne glasses and talking than dancing—and the ballroom was decorated into a lavish display of gold and silk.

But what amazed me wasn't the frivolous tablecloths, the designer gowns of guests, or the way even the air seemed too expensive to breath in; it was the ceiling.

Looming above our heads, a completely glass ceiling hung over the center of the dance floor, showing the starry night sky of Paris for all who dared to look up. It was like having the stars as a chandelier. Beautiful, extravagant, and transparent. To think this house belonged to Timothée's family—I assumed his mother took liking to the open roof.

In between the main floor and the ceiling was a wrap around balcony, the gold railings curling around all four sides of the room, and joining at the second set of stairs on the back.

I felt poor.

Not that I was, but compared to this amount of wealth, I felt like I'd been living in squalor my whole life. But I was here for a reason, and I couldn't let myself get distracted by silly things like frivolity.

Clearing my throat, I weaved my way in between the tables, the orange silk of my dress trailing behind me as I walked towards the back. Timothée had described the house in explicit detail: there were two back doors, one from the kitchen, and one from the foyer, and the latter would be the one less guarded.

I knew his words to be true when I slipped away from the ballroom, entering a winding hallway and spotting a single security guard at the end of the narrow tunnel.

Time to negotiate.

"Puis-je vous aider?" The man barked from his chair.

I blinked, coming to a stop a few paces away from him. I could see the foyer door to his left, and I could nearly sense Timothée and Sam waiting impatiently outside.

"I'm sorry," I said meekly, "I don't understand."

The man's face scrunched when he heard my English. "No French?"

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"Guests stay in Dance Hall," He said, his voice rugged and hesitant. It was clear he wasn't completely fluent in my language, and if anything, that was an advantage for me. I was trying to get him to leave his posts for a solitary moment. He added, "not allowed back here."

Time to make an excuse.

The 'I'm looking for a bathroom' card was too overused—he'd see right through it in an instant—so I'd need to think of something else to say. Quick. I stuck out my leg, the front of my heels showing from beneath the fabric.

"All this dancing has left me exhausted," I said, exhaling a heavy breath for effect, "I was just looking for a place to sit."

The man scrunched his nose. "All guests have assigned seating."

"Yes, but I don't understand French very well," I continued, "so I can't figure out where to sit."

In all honesty, it seemed like a terrible excuse, but I knew it would work. Sometimes the most strange things were reasonable, because the brain was wired to try and make sense of things. And in my favor, the slight language barrier might have made him skip over questioning and just try to help.

Which he did.

"Name?" He asked.

"Rebecca Lilac," I said.

"Wait here."

I watched—hiding my smug grin—of course, as he strode down the hallway and disappeared out of sight. He was going to find the table with my assigned seat. Little did he know, he'd come back to find me gone.

Shaking out the nerves, I did a double check to make sure he didn't turn back, before using the bottom of my palm to thrust open the large foyer doors. The cold air immediately hit my face and I winced, goosebumps raising along my bare arms as I held the door open.

Just as I suspected, Timothée and Sam were leaning up against the brick wall of the Villa, speaking in hushed whispers. They snapped their heads towards me when I threw open the back entrance.

"Boys," I smiled, "come on in."

Leaping off the wall, the two brushed past me and into the hallway, relieved laughter escaping their mouths as they stepped into the Villa. I shut the door, turning around, but was instantly caught in a kiss by Timothée, who smiled into it.

I could get used to this.

"Thank you, Vera, Darling," he grinned, pulling away.

I leaned forward to kiss him again, but we were interpreted by the sound of Sam loudly clearing his throat like a rusting lawn mower.

"Awe, how cute!" He said sarcastically, "if only we weren't in the middle of breaking into a Gala."

Timothée rolled his eyes, letting go of my waist, and nodding his head towards the end of the hallway. I shot Sam a dull look. He had a point, but still—let me revel in a kiss that I waited months for. But before I could take a step, I felt Timmy hold out his arm, keeping me from walking.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked.

I furrowed my brows. "I want to come with you."

"We agreed to leave you out of it. No illegal things, remember?

"But I'm not scared of that anymore," I smiled, "and besides, it's only illegal if we get caught."

I meant what I said. I wasn't sure if it was the energy of the music streaming through the thin walls, or the way I felt in a silk dress, but I found confidence lying inside my heart that wasn't there before. Timothée's eyes softened, and he nodded his head in agreement.

Sam just shrugged.

"I don't think that's true, but okay," he said from the side, "but I guess you can come."

I laughed. "Thank you, Brontté."

"Sure, Vera."

Grabbing Timothée's hand, the three of us quickly slipped down the hallway and back into the ballroom, letting the crowd of people surround us. We blended in like needles in a haystack, nearly undetectable to the unsuspecting eye.

And besides, we had a Will to steal.

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I'm sorry I haven't updated this in so long! Worst case of writers block I've ever had, and it took me quite a bit to find my way around it. Thank you so much for waiting, I appreciate it greatly xx