Page 47 of The One-Night Heist

How I don’t want anyone else but him.

Since the Art Crime Team investigation at my apartment, he’d kept our interactions as brief as possible—confirming that everything was under control on his end but otherwise giving me nothing. It was as if a switch had been flipped and I was now only getting crumbs after tasting a feast. No emojis, no attitude, no innuendos… none of the spark I’d grown addicted to in the brief time we’d known each other.

How can I fix this?

The solution struck just as I was getting off yet another Zoom call with Franz, his boss, Mr. Samuel, who was the head of fine art at Sotheby’s New York, and the PR specialist we’d hired to assist with breaking the news to the public.

I’ve got this under control.

I should have been focused on studying the speech I’d been given for today’s press conference, but seeing Rowen in person took precedence over anything else.

And I know exactly how to lure him closer again.

Blowing out a steadying breath, I reached for my phone, resisting the urge to call and instead sending off one more desperate message.

Take the elevator to the 31st floor.

His reply was almost instant, which I chose to interpret as him missing this connection as much as I did.

Poppy #5

Are you asking me or telling?

I laughed, hoping his obvious annoyance was a sign the ice was thawing, yet instinctively knowing it was vital that I show this man who was in charge.

Him.

I’m begging.

Please.

When I’d messaged yesterday with news of my upcoming press conference, along with a more immediate offer of drinks at The Skyline where we’d met, he’d turned down the invite with a clipped, businesslike response. This time, he read my message, but then took his time replying as I held my breath, bracing for the worst.

Poppy #5

I’ll be there in one hour, and I expect you to be ready for me.

Ready?

I assumed he meant prepped with the gifts he’d provided—which I’d been obediently experimenting with since they arrived. The prebiotic fiber supplement powder had been an easy enough addition to my diet, and while the rest remained on a learning curve, I still wasn’t entirely certain Rowen hadn’t sent the entire care package as a joke.

I hope not.

Part of me also wondered if he needed me to confirm I understood what he truly meant by that text.

And I think I do.

Because you own me.

This time he didn’t reply, and I had to force myself to set aside my phone and leave it at that, trusting he’d show up like he said he would.

So I can earn back his trust.

Ana had offered to “break off” our relationship if that would help mend things, but I’d declined. The damage was already done and, right now, we needed the press to focus on the missing art, not on my personal life—especially if it meant protecting Rowen from scrutiny.

Unfortunately, it was too late to avoid all suspicion, at least from certain parties. After the Art Crime Team left my apartment, Franz had pulled me aside, suggesting perhaps Rowen should be questioned, since he’d also attended my art viewing party. It pained me to continue lying to the man who’d always done right by me, but I had no choice. Casually brushing off his concerns, I pointed out Rowen had only been there at my request, and that he’d been “bored” enough to leave early. Franz seemed appeased by my explanation, but he still suggested I distance myself from a former art thief, especially in light of what happened.

Too late.