Not to mention, this isn't a heist. Replacing a masterpiece is one thing; rescuing a person from a fortress is a whole different game.
"We'll disrupt the cameras here, here, and here." Mitzy continues laying out the final details. "Once we do, we'll have a narrow window before they catch on."
This crew is something else—efficient, precise, and operating at a level I've never had to reach. But the weight of what's coming presses down.
This is no ordinary job.
The planning session continues late into the night. By the time we break, my head is spinning with details—guard rotations, security protocols, escape routes. It's a far cry from my usual solo operations, and I find myself both impressed by the Guardians' thoroughness and chafing at the constraints of working with a team.
As the others file out, I linger behind, staring at the holographic display of the Faulks estate. Somewhere in there, Vivianne is counting down the days until her freedom is taken away forever. And somewhere in there is the Swan pendant, a key to unlocking the mysteries of the past.
"We can do this." Merlin's presence beside me registers before he speaks.
"I hope you're right. Because if something goes wrong..." I don't finish the thought. I don't need to. We both know what's at stake.
I cast one last look at the hologram as we leave the room. In just a few days, that virtual representation will become a battlefield. And I'll be damned if I let Vivianne or the Swan slip through my fingers.
TWENTY-ONE
Vivianne: Silence
The days crawl by,each one a torturous reminder of my impending fate. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours until I'm supposed to walk down the aisle and surrender my freedom.
The mansion buzzes with frantic activity. An army of caterers, florists, and decorators swarms through the halls, transforming the already opulent space into something fit for a royal wedding. The air is thick with the cloying scent of lilies—Prescott's choice, not mine. Their perfume makes my head spin, my stomach churn.
The room feels smaller by the second, the scent pressing in from every corner. My sinuses swell as their syrupy perfume clogs my nostrils, thick and oppressive. The flowers' poison clings to me like smoke. I have to get out—now—before I either pass out or puke all over Prescott's precious masterpiece.
I lurch toward the nearest exit, my heels skimming the edge of a Persian rug as I stagger into the hallway. The reek is thinner here, but still heavy with the lingering floral scent. I shove open the first door I find and stumble into the servants' area, into a different kind of chaos.
Silver gleams under harsh overhead lights as trays of cutlery line the long worktable. Servants polish each piece methodically. A worker runs a rag along a crystal glass, the squeak of it scraping down my spine like nails on a chalkboard. Plates clink against one another with every adjustment, the sound brittle and endless.
I escaped the lilies only to be assaulted by silver polish—sharp and chemical, cutting through the cloying sweetness of flowers and settling deep in my lungs. My head spins, the nauseating blend of floral musk and metal cleaner swirling in my gut. I gag, my throat convulsing, but there's nothing left to bring up.
I need air. Now.
Shoving through another door, I stumble down a narrow corridor, my dress catching on the edges of furniture as I half-run, half-stagger toward the garden doors.
The evening air wraps around me, sharp and crisp, washing away the lingering stench of lilies and silver polish. I bend over, hands braced on my knees, dragging in desperate gulps of fresh air. My pulse slows, just a little, and the dizziness eases. For a brief, blissful moment, I believe I've found sanctuary.
Then I lift my gaze, scanning the bushes and treetops. A quiet hum of insects weaves through the twilight, but it's nothing more than ordinary garden life.
No sign of the bumblebees. No erratic flight patterns, no subtle hums arranging themselves into words. No message telling me Paul is coming, no sign that help is on the way. Just rows of sculpted hedges, perfectly trimmed roses, and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.
I wrap my arms around myself, as if holding my body together will stop the unraveling inside me. Maybe I imagined the message. Maybe the bumblebee drones were nothing morethan a hallucination—a desperate trick my mind conjured to give me hope.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel path behind me. I spin around, breath catching in my throat.
Donovan. The head of security strides toward me, his tailored suit straining across his broad shoulders, the gleam in his eyes more condescending than concerned.
"Miss Faulks." His voice is too smooth, too practiced. "You know you're not supposed to wander."
I take a step back, but his hand catches my arm—not rough, but firm, with a weight that makes it clear I have no choice.
"Let's get you back inside." The words are murmured, as if coaxing a child.
I yank my arm, but his grip tightens just enough to let me know resistance won't end well. He turns, steering me toward the mansion with all the ease of someone escorting a prisoner back to their cell.
The doors loom ahead, swallowing the last sliver of sky. I stumble along beside him, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. One last glance over my shoulder, searching for a glimmer of hope among the flowers, a sign that the bumblebee drones are still out there, still watching.
