Page 16 of Stolen Princess

Lars: On the inside, pressed into the gold, it says replica.

Me: No!

Lars: Yes, so the necklace gets divided into three.

My fingers tap on my screen, and I retake my seat on the closed toilet. I was never going to meet them at the rendezvous point. I was always going to keep the necklace as mine. And after I sell it, Rhys Stephan will no longer exist. They have no clue what I actually look like. In fact, the only person to see me without some form of prosthetic is the girl.

Me: Last I checked, a necklace is a singular object and not divisible by three.

That necklace is my ticket out of this life and straight into retirement. The tiara was supposed to be that, but how do you attempt to sell the Eye of Egypt without getting caught and questioned? I sold two of the smaller diamonds from it. That money is stashed in my account in Switzerland. But the Eye of Egypt and some of the larger stones felt like a bad omen to try to sell. Like a jinx.

Not to mention heavily fucking traceable.

A child was stolen from her bed in the dead of night, never to be seen again, and yet I stole her tiara from a cruddy apartment in a shit neighborhood in France. I don’t know how that Marie woman got the tiara in the first place. No mention was ever made about the tiara going missing and being taken with her. At the time, the papers reported that a man broke in and killed the king and stole the princess. They never caught him.

I assumed Marie and the woman I knew as A stole the tiara before Marie double-crossed her and kept it for herself.

Lars: If you think we’re going to let that stand, you’re nuts.

Me: Never said I wasn’t.

Given where I am, I wouldn’t know how to find me, so there’s no way they can. I have a buyer lined up for the necklace, and I plan to meet them in two weeks in Greece. After that, well, I can figure that out then.

It’s a fucking eternity before the girl finds her way back up to me. I’m dying for a shower and a change of clothes, but I can’t risk the noise. I’m also famished. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and now the sun is down. My phone is nearly dead, and there’s nothing exciting in her bathroom drawers. Some spare toilet paper, some tampons, a few beauty items, and that’s it.

The door opens as I’m going through a drawer, but I don’t care enough to make excuses because she’s holding a tray of food. My mouth waters, and my stomach grumbles loudly enough for both of us to hear it.

“Will you behave?” she asks.

“I’ll behave,” I promise, because I’m too hungry to try anything.

She nods her head over her shoulder, and I gratefully follow her into the studio space I caught on my way up. It’s loaded with canvas as well as murals all over the walls. She’s got some talent.

“These are nice,” I say.

“Thanks,” is her only reply.

The door to the stairs is closed, and after she sets the tray down on a table in the corner, she tells me, “It’s locked, and I have the key hidden.”

“You’re a clever one.” But I don’t wait. I go straight for the food and shovel it into my mouth, then wash it down with wine and water.

“You’re not. I could have poisoned you.”

I stop eating mid-chew. “Nah. You need me too badly.” I finish off the entire bowl of cassoulet, along with the bread and salad. It’s easily one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time. That could be because I’m starving, but I don’t think so. I think when you have this much time on your hands, you become good at a lot of things, like painting and cooking.

She’s quiet the entire time I eat, silently watching me with an indiscernible expression. She has my knife on her lap, but she’s not brandishing it or even paying it much attention. I decided during my hours of confinement that I’m not going to engage her. I’m going to keep my distance, do as she asks, get my necklace, and fuck off. I don’t want to know about her problems, and I’m not her savior.

Yet with every encounter, my curiosity grows. It doesn’t help that her skin is like velvet and her hair like silk. I bet her mouth is honey, and her virgin cunt is just as delicious. Doesn’t matter. I won’t be tasting either.

“Are you tying me up to sleep?”

“Yes,” she says simply.

I figured. “Can I have the sofa?”

“That was my plan.”

“Thanks for that.” I put the fork down and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Don’t suppose I can bargain for a shower?”