Stolen Fortune, Stolen Heart: The Caged Ward

The clasp of the clutch dug into the pad of Cinnamon Taylor's thumb. It was a sharp, grounding pain, a necessary distraction from the suffocating scent of lilies and old money that permeated the Pierre Hotel's grand ballroom. She stood in the shadow of a massive marble pillar, her back rigid, her breath shallow. She wasn't supposed to be invisible-she was the fiancée of Arturo Watts, after all-but invisibility was the only armor she had left tonight.

She ran her finger over the cold metal latch again. Click. Release. Click. Release. It was a nervous tic she couldn't suppress. Her eyes darted toward the exit signs, glowing red like warning beacons in the sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns. She just needed to make it to the powder room, then the side door, then the street. Just twenty feet of polished parquet floor stood between her and freedom.

A waiter passed by, balancing a silver tray laden with crystal flutes of champagne. He was moving too fast, his gait uneven. Cinnamon saw it happen a split second before it did. She twisted her torso, pulling her silk skirt out of his path, but she couldn't save the bag.

The waiter's elbow clipped her forearm. The impact wasn't hard, but it was precise. The clutch slipped from her sweating palm.

It hit the floor with a sound that seemed to stop time-a heavy, dull thud that echoed louder than the string quartet playing in the corner. The clasp, the one she had been tormenting all night, sprang open.

Lipstick. A compact mirror. A tampon. Her phone. They scattered across the pristine floor like debris from a crash site.

Cinnamon dropped to a crouch instantly, heat flooding her cheeks. Her hands shook as she reached for the lipstick.

"Oh, dear. Do you need a hand with that?"

The voice was high, sweet, and laced with arsenic. Cinnamon froze. She didn't need to look up to know that Tiffany Watts was standing over her. She could see the hem of the red Valentino gown, the same shade as fresh arterial blood.

Tiffany didn't wait for an answer. She stepped forward, her stiletto heel coming down hard on the strap of Cinnamon's bag.

Cinnamon looked up then. Tiffany was smiling, but her eyes were dead. She had brought an audience-three other women from the Junior League, all watching with the predatory interest of sharks circling a wounded seal.

"Move your foot, Tiffany," Cinnamon whispered, her voice tight.

"I'm just trying to help, cousin," Tiffany said, loud enough for the table nearby to turn their heads. "You always were so clumsy. It must be hard, trying to balance in shoes that cost more than your father's bail bond."

Cinnamon grabbed the strap and yanked. Tiffany stumbled slightly but didn't budge. "I said, move."

Before the tension could snap, a scream pierced the air from the other side of the room.

"My brooch! My Pink Star! It's gone!"

The chatter in the ballroom died instantly.