Chapter 1

Sera

I’m not sure what the sky is supposed to feel like on the day you’re technically free, but I’d bet it’s not this. The heat coats my skin, stifling as I step through the final checkpoint at Lockton Correctional. My pulse beats in my ears louder than the clang of metal doors sliding shut behind me.

They said I’d know true freedom once I walked past these gates. Except I’m not convinced anything about my release is real. Not the hush that settles on the yard. Not the false cheer on the guard’s face as he hands me a plastic bag with my few belongings. Not the battered chain-link fence that rattles in the wind. And certainly not the black SUV parked near the curb, engine humming like it’s impatient.

A nurse once told me every prison exudes a singular scent: a mixture of industrial sanitizer, stale regret, and pressed uniforms. That tang lingers on my clothes no matter how many times I wash them. Right now, it clings to every breath I take—reminding me where I was just minutes ago, and how easily I could end up back there.

I square my shoulders, refusing to give in to any tremor or second-guess. My posture’s a leftover from years of dancing before life took a turn I never saw coming. My mother always said I could balance a book on my head from the time I learned to walk. Today, I straighten my spine for a new reason: to convince myself I won’t let them see how frightened I am.

Sunlight glints against the tinted SUV window. I see my reflection for a split second—brown skin, eyes that hold more anger than hope, and waist-length locs pulled into a braided topknot. A faint scar curves along my jaw, courtesy of a scuffle in the prison workshop. Beneath my fitted T-shirt, there’s another mark across my ribs from a heist gone very wrong. That one’s older but feels as fresh as the day it happened.

I step forward, spotting a tall figure leaning against the vehicle. He’s wearing a gray suit that looks too crisp for a place like this, his arms folded across a broad chest. It’s a guard or an official of some kind—someone who believes in hierarchical lines and chain of command. My fists ball at my sides, though I keep my expression neutral.

“You’re not what I pictured,” he remarks, looking me over. No hostility, just matter-of-fact curiosity.

I tilt my chin. “What did you picture?”

“Someone who’d be more... subdued.” He opens the passenger door and motions me in. “My name’s Agent Palomo. Mira Kazemi sends her regards.”

He gestures for me to climb into the back seat. Everything about him is professional, from the neat part in his short hair to the clean shave that accentuates his jaw. I note the faint lines at his temples—he’s older than me by at least a decade. Probably has a desk stacked with files on criminals like me.

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, though it’s a lie. I slip into the back of the SUV, hearing the door click shut. The interior smells of leather and stress. There’s a partition between the front seat and the back—a thick glass panel that suggests I’m still not fully trusted. No surprise there.

Agent Palomo slides into the driver’s seat. The engine revs, and we pull away from Lockton Correctional. I glimpse a final look at the barbed wire fence in the rearview mirror. My chest tightens, but I force a measured inhale.

We drive in tense silence for a few minutes. The city appears in the distance, steel and glass skyscrapers shimmering in the midday sun. I haven’t seen a skyline in over four years. My stomach churns with something akin to excitement, but I tamp it down. This is no normal release; I’ve got the paperwork to prove it.

Agent Palomo flicks a glance at me through the rearview mirror. “Mira apologized for not greeting you herself. She’s finalizing details of your new arrangement. You’ll meet her soon.”

“New arrangement,” I echo quietly. My voice sounds more bitter than intended.

“Do you have questions?” he asks.

I fold my arms. “I have about a million.”

He waits, eyes steady on the road. I guess that’s my cue to speak up. “Fine. Why me? I’m not the only ex-con with specialized knowledge. There are plenty of forgers out there who haven’t done half the time I have.”

He answers with a clipped tone. “We need someone with your exact skills in textile acquisition and restoration. You also have... personal motivations we believe will keep you on task.”

My jaw sets. So it’s not just my skill set. It’s the deeply personal reason I ended up behind bars in the first place: a stolen heirloom, an ex-partner who vanished, and a score that cost me everything. They’re probably counting on me wanting revenge.

“Alright,” I say, leaning back in the seat. “So how does this arrangement work?”

He spares me another brief look. “You’ll be placed under a specific contract—classified. You follow every directive from Ms. Kazemi and this task force. You collaborate with the assigned liaison in the art world.”

“Collaborate,” I repeat, a scoff coloring the word. “That means do exactly what I’m told, or I go back. Correct?”

He doesn’t deny it. “There’s also a morality clause. No extracurricular entanglements or activities without clearance. We can’t risk compromising your credibility or ours.”

“ ‘Extracurricular entanglements’?” My laugh is short, humorless. “So if I so much as date someone they don’t like, I lose my freedom?”

“It’s more about ensuring you don’t sabotage the operation.” He pauses, then chooses his words carefully. “We don’t want a repeat of old mistakes.”

I look out the window, focusing on the passing buildings. Sunlight streaks across my face. My reflection stares back at me, unyielding. I hate that they assume my worst mistake was tangling with the wrong man, as if that alone defines me. But I know better than to argue with an agent’s logic.

Before I can speak again, the SUV slows. We’ve reached an office complex on the outskirts of Manhattan. Agent Palomo slips into an underground parking lot, scanning a keycard at the barrier. The gate lifts, and we descend into a mostly empty space with harsh fluorescent lighting overhead.

He kills the engine and turns to face me through the partition. “Your next step is a briefing. Ms. Kazemi wants to go over specifics. Any personal effects you have left behind—storage, accounts—they’ll be handled after we finalize your schedule.”

“Schedule,” I mutter. “Sounds like I just swapped prison for a nicer cage.”

A muscle tics in his jaw, but he doesn’t address my comment. Instead, he gets out, circles the SUV, and opens my door. “Follow me.”

The concrete walls echo our footsteps. I’m hyper-aware of my posture, my shoulders stiffening with unease. It’s an old habit: never look cowed, never appear weak. At the same time, my mind flickers to the handful of items in my plastic bag—some clothes, a battered paperback, a tattered piece of patterned cloth from my grandmother’s quilting stash. That cloth was my only real keepsake on the inside.

We enter an elevator with steel panels, and I watch the floor numbers blink overhead. My heart pounds. No matter how aloof I try to be, this moment is life-changing: I’m out. I no longer have to stare at the same cinder-block cell or endure routine checks for contraband. Yet, the uncertainty swirling around me feels like a fresh prison.

When we step out on the fifth floor, I notice a hallway lined with closed doors—each bearing a bland nameplate. Agent Palomo leads me to a corner room at the end and knocks once. A voice inside tells us to enter.

We walk into a cramped office. A woman stands behind a metal desk, flipping through a file. She’s tall, mid-forties maybe, with wavy black hair pinned back. Her blazer is a subtle charcoal color, and her gaze is sharp enough to cut glass. I can sense authority in how she regards Agent Palomo with a nod, then shifts her attention to me.

“Sera Vance,” she says, setting down the file. “I’m Mira Kazemi. I see Agent Palomo brought you here without trouble.”

I can’t help the tiny smirk. “He didn’t have to drag me, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “I prefer straightforwardness, Ms. Vance. Let’s be clear: you have a chance most inmates don’t get. If you want to keep it, you’ll listen carefully.”

“Understood,” I reply, although part of me bristles at her tone. I lock that feeling away.

Mira gestures to a chair across from her desk. I settle there, and Agent Palomo remains by the door, arms folded. The file on her desk, with my name on the label, looks thicker than a dictionary. She flips it open, revealing pages of typed text, my mug shot, and what looks like old case notes.

“We’re assembling a covert task force aimed at dismantling a black-market operation dealing in stolen textiles and counterfeit prescription drugs,” she explains. “Your role is to gain access to certain circles—either by forging or appraising. We’ll give you the tools to pass as a legitimate buyer or consultant. But your primary assignment is infiltration.”

Her words churn in my mind. “Right. And how exactly do I avoid getting recognized? My face was all over the news when I got arrested.”

Mira glances at my photo. “The art underworld thrives on half-truths and hidden identities. People rarely advertise who they are, especially if they’re criminals. With the right credentials and some help from our liaison in the art community, you’ll manage.”

I lean forward. “Who is this liaison?”

She sifts through a few papers before responding. “Lucien Cross. He owns multiple galleries across the globe, mostly dealing in high-end collections. He has ties to philanthropic circles and—”

I cut in, something about the name snagging my attention. “Cross is a big shot. He sells fine art to billionaires and invests in old European estates. I’ve heard rumors he’s an expert in antique pieces, but not so big on second chances for people like me. I’ve mostly heard rumors but I haven’t seen him in person.”

Agent Palomo exhales softly. “Mr. Cross is cooperating because we convinced him it’s in his best interest. You two will coordinate closely.”

A bitter laugh hovers in my throat. “Coordinate is one way to put it. He’ll see me as a criminal liability, or worse. You sure he’s not going to sabotage me the first chance he gets?”

Mira’s expression is unflinching. “He won’t sabotage you if he wants to protect his assets. We have leverage on everyone involved. Don’t worry about Mr. Cross. Focus on the mission—and on making sure you don’t violate our agreement.” She taps a page listing bullet points: No unauthorized intimacy, no involvement in outside crimes, daily check-ins, mandatory progress reports. The words glare up at me like iron bars.

I nod slowly, letting the reality sink in. “Okay. So the second I slip, I’m back in a cell?”

Her voice drops an octave, almost gentle. “I don’t expect you to slip, Ms. Vance. I expect you to take this opportunity for what it is: a second life. If you do your job, your record gets wiped clean. We’ll bury the details of your conviction, and you’ll walk away with no strings attached. But if you break faith with us in any way, we won’t waste time on warnings.”

I meet her gaze. My pulse thrums. Once again, I feel that invisible chain around my ankle, the one that keeps me tethered to a system I never asked for. “I understand.”

“Good.” She shuts the file, making a decisive sound. “Agent Palomo will see you out. You’ll have temporary housing at a secure apartment for now. Get settled tonight. Tomorrow morning, you’ll meet with Lucien Cross in person. First impressions matter, Ms. Vance.”

My mouth is dry, but I manage a tight-lipped smile. “They always do.”

Mira extends a hand. Reluctantly, I stand and shake it. Her grip is firm. “We’ll speak again soon,” she says. “Welcome back to the outside world.”

Outside world. Strange that it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. I thank her, then follow Agent Palomo into the corridor. The door closes behind us, sealing me away from the file that holds the sum of my mistakes. My heartbeat rattles around in my ribs.

In the elevator, Palomo remains silent. I stare at the overhead lights, lost in thought. The entire plan hinges on me working with some polished billionaire who probably hates criminals. And that’s if we can even stand each other enough to fake a partnership.

Trust is a luxury, I remind myself. A dim memory of a younger me surfaces—one who believed trust was possible, that love wasn’t just a con. That version of Sera got crushed by betrayal years ago.

The elevator dings at the underground parking level, and we step into the hush of concrete walls again. Palomo walks me to a different sedan, pointing at the passenger seat. This time, there’s no partition. Maybe it’s a small sign they consider me marginally less dangerous. Or maybe they know I have nowhere to run.

He starts the engine, guiding us through the exit ramp. I watch the sunlight spill over the hood as we emerge onto the busy street. Taxis honk, pedestrians bustle, and a wave of city energy hits me with a force I haven’t felt in years. My chest tightens, a blend of anxiety and a flicker of excitement. Despite everything, I missed the chaos.

Palomo glances at me, and for a moment, sympathy softens his features. “If you stay in line, this can work out for you,” he says quietly. “Mira’s strict, but she isn’t heartless.”

I don’t respond right away. My arms lock over my chest, and I exhale. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”

He guides the car through traffic, eventually pulling up to a modest apartment building. It’s a far cry from the dingy corners I grew up around, and it’s definitely not prison. He hands me a single keycard labeled with a unit number.

“There’s food in the fridge and a phone on the table inside. It’s preprogrammed with only two numbers: me and Ms. Kazemi,” he explains. “Don’t lose it.”

My grip on the keycard is firm. “Got it.”

“Be ready by eight tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up for the meeting with Mr. Cross.”

I push open the passenger door, stepping onto the sidewalk. The city noise rushes around me. I keep my posture upright as I head to the building entrance, even though my heart is pounding.

Inside, the hallway is dull beige with a faint chemical smell. I find the elevator, ride it to the fourth floor, and open the door to my assigned unit. The place is small but clean. A single window overlooks a busy street. There’s a couch, a kitchenette, and a bedroom behind one narrow door. On the coffee table sits a phone charger and the phone Palomo mentioned.

Setting down my plastic bag, I stand in the center of the living room, letting the silence soak in. This is freedom, in the sense that I’m not wearing an orange jumpsuit anymore. But the leash feels no less tangible.

I run my fingers along the frayed edge of my grandmother’s cloth, the one I took from prison. A swirl of deep reds and gold thread—a pattern she used to say represented resilience. If the system hadn’t stolen so much from me, maybe that cloth would be enough to  enough to bring back better days. Now, it’s just a reminder of why I’m here. I want that piece of my life back... and everything else that vanished with it.

Tomorrow, I meet Lucien Cross, the man who apparently holds the key to my new mission. I’ve read about him in magazines. He’s known for exclusive art shows, philanthropic events, and an arrogance that goes unmatched. The thought of trusting someone like him makes my throat tighten. We’re from different worlds, and I’m not naive enough to expect kindness.

Still, if I want to stay out of Lockton, I’ll have to pretend we can work together. The odds are stacked against me, but that’s never stopped me before.

I move to the window, looking out at the steady stream of headlights and streetlamps. New York hums with life, and after four years, I’m standing on the brink of something that might be real freedom—or a brand-new trap.

My reflection in the glass is sharper now. It whispers of everything I’ve lost, but also everything I might gain, if I can navigate this mission without letting the past consume me. The city lights flicker, and I swallow hard.

“Trust is a luxury,” I murmur, resting my palm on the window. “I sure hope I’ve learned how to earn it—and how to make sure no one pulls the rug out from under me again.”

One day out, and I’m already up to my neck in deals and half-truths. But tomorrow, I’ll face Lucien Cross, and we’ll see who breaks first.

Until then, I’m Sera Vance, convict turned operative, unwilling to lose a second chance. And whether it’s a setup or not, I’m ready to play.