Read Chapter 37: Full Circle

The gala’s chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls above a sea of tuxedos and silk. Camille stood at the edge of the auction house’s grand salon, one hand resting on the velvet-lined case that held the real necklace—the one they had recovered from Falk, the one that had nearly cost her everything. It was meant to be displayed here for one night only, a public vindication before it returned to its anonymous owner’s vault.

Victor appeared at her elbow, two flutes of champagne in hand. He offered one, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years learning to read crowds. “You look like you’re guarding a bomb.”

“I am,” she said, accepting the glass but not drinking. “The insurance rider alone requires two armed guards per exit. They’re by the doors. I’m the third line of defense.”

“And the fourth?”

She almost smiled. “You.”

Victor’s expression flickered—something between gratitude and the old, familiar wariness. Since Henri had destroyed his warrant, since the dust had settled on the airstrip, he had been lighter. But not light. Never entirely. “Then the necklace is safe,” he said.

It wasn’t.

At 9:47 PM, the lights dimmed for the presentation speech. And in that single moment of darkness, a figure in white linen stepped calmly toward the display case. The glass didn’t shatter. There was no alarm. The man simply reached through the side panel—avoiding the pressure plates Camille had watched the technicians install—and lifted the necklace from its velvet cradle with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times.

Camille had already moved.

She was halfway across the floor before the lights came back up, her heels silent on the marble. The man was at the service door, one hand on the handle, when she caught him with a jewel loop—a thin silver magnifier she had worn on a chain around her neck for years, a jeweler’s tool that had examined a thousand stones.

She looped the chain around his wrist and pulled.

He twisted, surprised by her strength, and the necklace swung in his grip like a pendulum. “Back off,” he hissed. “I’ll drop it into the crowd. It’ll be a scramble. You’ll never—”

“You won’t drop it,” Camille said, her voice low and calm. “It’s why you’re here. You came for this piece specifically.”

His eyes narrowed. Behind them, she heard Victor’s footsteps, and the shouting of security. But Camille didn’t wait. She stepped in close, her hand pressing against his knuckles until the necklace slipped free into her palm. At the same moment, she shoved him back through the door—into the corridor, where two guards grabbed him by the arms.

“Get his face on camera,” Camille said. “I want a full biometric scan before he’s handed over. He knows what he’s doing. He bypassed our pressure plates. That’s insider knowledge.”

She turned back to the salon. The crowd had barely noticed—a ripple of confusion, a few heads turned toward the commotion, but the auction house’s head of PR was already at the microphone, smoothly explaining that a minor delay had occurred with the display lighting. The necklace was still in her hand.

Victor reached her side, breathless. “That was incredible.”

“That was lucky,” she said. “He knew the case. He knew the timing. This wasn’t a random thief.”

“You’re thinking it was Falk’s network. Reconnaissance.”

She shook her head. “I’m thinking it was someone who watched us install the case this afternoon. Someone who watched *me* set the pressure plates. It was too precise, Victor. Too clean.”

They moved to a private anteroom, the necklace now locked back in its case with Camille holding the key. The thief had been taken below. Victor made two calls—one to Henri, one to the on-site Interpol liaison—while Camille sat on the edge of a gilt chair, the jewel loop still coiled in her hand.

“We should talk about the watcher,” she said.

Victor paused mid-call. “What watcher?”

“The one we’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist.” She looked at him squarely. “You can’t spend that many years working with men like Falk and walk away empty-handed. He planted someone to follow you. You know that. I know you know it.”

He finished the call and pocketed his phone. “I’ve been tracking him for three days. A man in a gray Peugeot, mostly. Sometimes he switches to a scooter. He’s good, but not exceptional.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this?”

“I thought I could handle it.” He sat beside her. “I was wrong.”

“He nearly got the necklace tonight.” Camille’s voice trembled slightly. “Two minutes later, he would have been gone. And I would have been blamed for it all over again.”

Victor was quiet for a long moment. “It wasn’t him.”

“What?”

“The man tonight. I got a clear look at him when you caught him. He’s new—not someone from Falk’s inner circle. Falk’s people are older, more cautious. This one moved like a local. Someone who knew the building.”

Camille’s pulse quickened. “A local. With insider knowledge of our security setup.”

The door opened, and a uniformed attendant stepped in. “Ms. Laurent, the police have the suspect in the loading bay. They’d like you to come confirm the identity.”

Camille rose, but Victor caught her arm. “Wait.”

She looked back.

“I know you don’t trust me fully yet,” he said. “I understand that. But trust this: whoever sent that man tonight didn’t send him for the necklace. They sent him to see how you would respond. They were watching you.”

“Who would—?”

“Someone who wants to know if you’re still the jeweler who panics, or the one who holds steady.” He let go. “Go. Identify him. But when you’re done, we need to talk about what that watch means. Because it means the game isn’t over. It’s just moved to a new board.”

Camille walked out into the corridor, her thoughts a storm. The thief was bound to a chair in the loading bay, his white linen jacket torn. A police officer handed her a tablet with the man’s caught image on screen.

“Do you recognize him?” the officer asked.

But Camille’s eyes were fixed on something else on the screen—a small tattoo, just above the man’s collar. A symbol she had seen before. In Victor’s old file. The one Henri had supposedly burned.

The mark of the ferrymen.

She looked up, her mouth dry, and turned slowly back toward the anteroom where Victor was waiting. But the chair was empty, and the door to the service stairwell was just closing.