The Stolen Sapphire: His Fake Girlfriend

"Just wait," she whispered to the empty seat beside her. "I'm coming for it."

The promise, a venomous vow made to the ghost of her past, was the only thing keeping her upright. The flight attendant offered a glass of champagne, the bubbles fizzing near the rim like a hollow toast to a better life. Belle Stanton ignored it. She asked for milk.

It was a foolish choice, something a child would ask for, but she craved the bland comfort, a temporary coating for the acid eating away at her stomach lining. She knew dairy was a risk, but at this point, self-destruction felt like a form of control. Her stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself. It had been doing that since she left Paris, a slow, burning churn that made her skin clammy and her hands shake. She pulled her leather jacket tighter around her chest, trying to disappear into the oversized seat of the first-class cabin. She didn't look like she belonged here. Her boots were scuffed, her jeans were ripped at the knees not by design but by wear, and her hair was a dark, tangled mess that screamed "stay away."

She glanced to her left.

The man in 2A was a statue carved out of money and indifference. He wore a suit that probably cost more than her entire existence over the last three years. He was reading a document, his pen hovering over the paper with precise, calculated intent. He hadn't looked at her once since she boarded. To him, she was just background noise, static on a radio channel he didn't listen to.

Good. She preferred invisible.

Belle took the glass of warm milk from the attendant with a muttered thanks. Her fingers trembled against the glass. She needed to calm down. She needed to stop thinking about why she was going back to New York.

To distract herself, she grabbed the copy of Tatler from the side pocket. It was trashy, glossy escapism. Just what she needed. She flipped the pages aggressively, the sharp sound of paper tearing through the quiet hum of the cabin.

Page 12.

Her hand froze.

The headline was bold, cheerful, and nauseating: Aryana Stanton's Fairytale Engagement.

Belle stared at the photo. Aryana, her half-sister, was smiling that perfect, practiced smile that fooled everyone. She was clinging to Carlton Bryan's arm like a delicate vine. But Belle wasn't looking at Aryana's face. She wasn't looking at the ring.

She was looking at Aryana's neck.

A sapphire pendant hung there. A deep, midnight blue stone surrounded by a halo of diamonds.

The air left Belle's lungs in a rush. It was a physical blow. That necklace wasn't Aryana's. It wasn't Ewart Stanton's to give. It was hers. It was the last thing her mother had worn before the cancer took her, the only piece of jewelry Belle had specifically asked to be kept in the vault until she turned twenty-five.

"Thief," Belle whispered. The word tasted like