PROLOGUE – MAYA BELROSE
Bridger Canyon, Montana – age 18
I knew this mansion like the back of my hand. Every hidden passage, every creaky floorboard, every blind spot the security cameras missed. Three generations of Belroses had lived here together, and for a time, it had been home. Until Grandpa died, leaving his will unfinished and unsigned.
Then the vultures swooped in. Uncle David and his Botoxed trophy wife wasted no time staking their claim, leeching off what was never theirs to take. My parents never saw it coming. That was the price of trust. David bled them dry. While they built their empire on stolen wealth, we stood on the outside looking in.
And the worst part? Their legacy was secured in their perfect little princess, Annamaria.
Once upon a time, I was Grandpa’s favorite. And from the moment we were old enough to string sentences together, Anna hated me for it. Now, as the golden child of the Belrose clan, she had it all—power, wealth, and every luxury life could offer.
I’d made peace with that. Mostly.
Truly, I didn’t miss the wealth, the mansions, or the designer labels. I worked two jobs, paid my own way through college, and never asked for anything. But tonight, I was back. Not for money, not for revenge, but for something more important—my mom’s heirloom, stolen and never forgotten.
Covered head to toe, with gloved hands and soft-soled shoes, I crouched behind a tree in the backyard, watching the mansion. It was quiet. I remember the nights when its windows were glowing like a jack-o’-lantern against the dark Montana sky. But not right now. I’d planned this for months. Every entry point, every camera angle. The risks were calculated. The reward? Priceless.
“It was from my grandma. I promised her,” she used to whisper to Dad.
And every time, he’d say, “I’ll make it up to you.”
But he never did.
So now, I was here to take it back.
The backyard was enclosed by a fence, but not for security, just to keep the deer out. There were no cameras, no guards. The only thing behind it was the forest, untouched and undisturbed, a natural barrier no one ever crossed. I climbed over, dropping onto the grass without a sound, then sprinted for the storage outbuilding at the edge of the property.
Most people thought it was just a glorified shed, but it had history.
It used to be a trapper’s cabin, built long before the mansion existed. Grandpa told me stories about the men who lived here, how they carved out tunnels to survive the brutal winters. Over time, the cellar became a passage, forgotten by everyone, except me.
I slipped inside, the scent of dust and aged wood filling my lungs. A few tarps covered old furniture, long abandoned. But the trap door in the corner was still there.
I pried it open and climbed down, my fingers brushing against cold, packed earth. The tunnel was narrow, just wide enough for me to crawl through. I moved quickly, the way I had as a kid when I used to play hide and seek, slipping through the darkness like I was part of it.
Seconds later, I surfaced near the mansion’s south wall, right in the blind spot of the security cameras.
I blew out a breath.
Now for the fun part.
I scaled the wall, using whatever I could find—window frames, the rusted edge of the gutter, and chipped ledges that hadn’t been repaired in years. My fingers knew where to go, moving over the familiar path. I hauled myself up and swung onto the balcony without a sound. Crouching low, I listened.
Silence.
The house was empty. It always was when Uncle David dragged his whole family off to endure his in-laws’ wedding anniversary. Nothing like choking down polite conversation with people he couldn’t stand, all for the reward of champagne expensive enough to demand a trust fund at the door. He was rich, but that never stopped him from chasing a weekend of luxury freeloading.
I slipped inside through the French doors, the lock offering no resistance to the delicate coaxing of a hairpin. The mansion had changed over the years, with new paint and new furniture. But its bones remained the same. I still knew the hidden panels, the shortcuts, and the places they thought were secure.
The vault was in his office, concealed behind a bookcase that reeked of overpriced Scotch and ego. It should’ve required biometric access, but Uncle David wasn’t as smart as he thought. The backup panel was laughably outdated, easy to override. A few keystrokes and a bypass loop, and I was in.
Inside were stacks of cash and piles of meaningless paperwork.
I didn’t need to dig to know how the other half lived, hoarding more than they could ever spend, oblivious to anything beyond their own greed. They wouldn’t even notice what I came for was missing.
My mother’s necklace.
Pure platinum, shaped into filigree that held magnificent diamonds. Seeing it here made my blood simmer. Something so personal, so tied to my mother, hidden like it was just a game. Sure, it had value, but that wasn’t the point. It was a legacy, passed down with love from my mother’s side of the family. It had nothing to do with David Belrose.
