POV : Alroquette Residence

  Jonathan Alroquette wasn’t the type to let grudges go—especially not the small, stupid, utterly insignificant ones. The kind that other people would forget in five minutes? He’d nurse those like a fine wine, letting them age into a full-bodied, decades-long resentment. It wasn’t about the offense itself. It was about the principle.

  And the principle was this: nobody—nobody—looked down on Jonathan Alroquette.

  He had everything—a fleet of cars, multiple vacation homes, and an investment portfolio that practically printed money. But that wasn’t the point.

  Jonathan didn’t give a damn about the stupid box. It could have been filled with rocks and old newspaper clippings for all he cared. But the fact that Trask—Trask—was the one getting the fame and glory for winning it? That was unacceptable.

  At first, he hadn’t even wanted the damn thing that badly. It was a novelty, a conversation piece at best. But the moment Trask outbid him, it stopped being about the box. Now, it was about principle.

  The Venetian puzzle box should have been his. The bragging rights should have been his. Not Trask’s.

  And the worst part? He could already hear it in his head.

  “Oh yes,” Trask would say at some insufferable gala, swirling his overpriced scotch. “You know, Jonathan Alroquette wanted it too. But of course, being the trashy second-generation that he is, he really couldn’t afford it.”

  Jonathan clenched his jaw at the imaginary conversation. That smug bastard would love rubbing it in. Trask didn’t just want to win—he wanted to humiliate him. And that? That could not stand.

  But what could he do? Walk up and demand it? Buy it off him? Please. Trask wasn’t the type to let something go once he knew someone else wanted it.

  Jonathan needed another approach.

  Jonathan took a slow sip from his glass of Chateau Cheval Rouge, letting the rich, velvety wine coat his tongue. It was good—obnoxiously good, the kind of vintage that made people nod in fake appreciation even if they couldn’t tell the difference between a five-dollar bottle and a five-thousand-dollar one.

  This wasn’t about the box at all. Maybe this wasn’t even about Trask. This was about winning.

  Because if there was one thing Jonathan Alroquette despised more than nouveau-riche, social-climbing, trophy-wife-collecting assholes like Trask… it was losing to them.

  A thought crossed his mind.

  A highly illegal, incredibly satisfying thought.

  Jonathan swirled the Chateau Cheval Rougein his glass, his mind drifting back to a particular evening in one of his favorite hotels. A place he kept a suite in—not for business, not for convenience, but for discretion. The kind of discretion that came in handy when juggling multiple mistresses across different social circles.

  That night, everything had been perfectly arranged. An exclusive dinner with friends, the right crowd, the right conversation, and most importantly, the right wine—a bottle so rare that even mentioning its name would send sommeliers into raptures.

  Only, there had been one problem.

  The bottle was locked in a safe.

  A safe that, thanks to a frustrating series of events (which he blamed on the hotel staff, naturally), he could not open.

  He had been standing there, fuming, watching the minutes tick by, feeling the slow creep of approaching humiliation. He could already imagine the jokes. Jonathan Alroquette, heir to a fortune, yet somehow unable to bring the wine he had promised. The kind of gossip a nouveau rich social climber Trask would’ve dined out on for months.

  But then—salvation.

  That night at the hotel, when his entire evening had been on the verge of ruin, it wasn’t just some sharp concierge or talented locksmith who had saved him. No, it had been a young woman—sharp, confident, with an easy smirk that said she’d done this sort of thing before.

  She hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t even hesitated. Just took one look at the safe, used a few random hotel supplies including a coffee cup of all things, and got to work. And in less time than it took for him to light a cigar, she’d popped it open with a satisfied little click.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” she’d said, pocketing the tip he’d handed her. “They make ‘em complicated so guys like you have to pay gals like me.”

  At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it—just another one of those fortunate encounters that came with being him. But now, imagining Trask soaking in his undeserved glory, Jonathan had a realization.

  Perhaps it was time to ask for some help.

  ****

  POV: Sentinel Security Academy

  Chloe walked into Sentinel Security Academy already bored.

  Not because the material wasn’t interesting—it was. Today’s class was Advanced Physical Security & Countermeasures. But at this point…

  She was breezing through everything.

  The other recruits? Struggling. Sweating. Staring at locks like they were alien artifacts.

  Chloe? Smirking. Popping through obstacles like the game was on easy mode.

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  It was getting awkward.

  ***

  “All right,” their instructor for the day—Brick—announced. “Next challenge: pickpocketing.”

  A groan rippled through the recruits. This wasn’t just about stealing; it was about stealing without being noticed.

  Brick held up a small metal key, letting it dangle between two fingers before slipping it into his pocket. “The goal is simple. This key is on me somewhere. Your job? Take it without me catching you. You have till the end of this lecture.”

  He crossed his arms and smirked. “Now, most of you think you know how to pickpocket. Maybe you’ve seen some movies, maybe you’ve tried it on your little siblings, maybe you even think you’ve got some natural talent. But real pickpocketing? It’s an art. It’s all about misdirection, timing, and confidence.”

  He paced in front of them, rolling his shoulders like he was getting ready for a fight. “First rule—distraction is everything. You can’t just walk up to someone and dip your hand into their pocket like some cartoon bandit. You gotta make ‘em focus on something else. Ever bump into someone on the street and feel them pat their pocket afterward? That’s because a skilled pickpocket uses that moment of impact to cover the grab.”

  Brick turned on his heel and pointed at one of the recruits. “You, what’s your name?”

  “Uh… Jake?”

  “Jake. Good. Stand up.”

  Jake hesitated but obeyed. Brick took a step forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now, if I wanted to take your wallet, I wouldn’t just go for it, right? That’d be stupid. Instead…” Brick gestured wildly with his other hand as he continued talking, his voice animated. “…I’d keep you engaged. Maybe ask for directions, maybe pretend I know you. Hell, maybe I’d fake an injury and lean on you for support. And while you’re focused on that, my other hand—” He stepped back and held up Jake’s ID card with a flourish. “—is already in your pocket.”

  Jake blinked, then frantically patted his pants. “What the—?!”

  The other recruits murmured, suddenly standing a little stiffer, hands subconsciously moving to their pockets.

  Brick chuckled. “And that brings me to the second rule—if you make someone feel the theft, you’ve already lost. That means smooth hands, light touches, and knowing what fabrics make the most noise. Jeans? Bad idea. Cargo pants? Nightmare. A loose coat pocket?” He smirked. “Chef’s kiss.”

  He tossed Jake’s ID back to him and turned to the rest of the class. “Third rule—speed is overrated. You’re not in a race. If you go too fast, you make mistakes. A real pro makes the move so casual, so unremarkable, that the mark doesn’t even think to check.”

  He walked back toward his desk, casually shifting his weight as he did so. “And the final rule? Adapt. Because no matter how good you are, something’s gonna go wrong eventually. Maybe they turn at the last second, maybe a strap gets caught, maybe some nosy little brat in the crowd points you out.”

  Brick leaned against his desk and raised an eyebrow. “That’s why I keep an extra wallet on me.”

  He pulled a cheap, empty wallet from his other pocket and waved it. “If you get caught, this is what you drop. Act shocked, apologize, say it was a joke or a mistake, and walk away. A pro never runs unless they have to.”

  The recruits glanced at each other. Some were already itching to test out the techniques, but Brick just grinned.

  “Now, let’s see if any of you can actually put that into practice,” he said. “Clock’s ticking.”

  The recruits were split into groups, each given a simple task—pickpocket a small item from their partner without getting caught. It sounded easy on paper, but in practice? A disaster.

  Jake, still rattled from having his ID stolen in front of the entire class, was paired with a wiry recruit named Devon. Devon tried to go for Jake’s wallet, but his technique was about as subtle as a toddler grabbing candy. Jake immediately slapped his hand away.

  “Dude, are you serious?” Jake said, narrowing his eyes. “You think I wouldn’t notice that?”

  Brick, who was casually circling the room like a shark in a tank, sighed. “If your mark can feel you digging around, you might as well just punch ‘em and take their stuff the old-fashioned way. Try again.”

  Meanwhile, another group wasn’t doing much better. A red-haired girl named Melissa managed to slip her hand into her partner’s coat pocket, only to get stuck on the lining. The more she tried to tug her hand free, the more obvious it became.

  Her partner, a stocky guy named Brian, frowned. “Uh, are you okay?”

  “I—” Melissa gave one last yank and finally freed herself—unfortunately, not before accidentally flipping Brian’s coat inside out.

  Brick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, let’s take a moment to reflect on why ripping someone’s clothing apart is not a good pickpocketing strategy.”

  At the same time, a few daring recruits were attempting to steal the key from Brick himself.

  One by one, recruits tried.

  The first guy went for a distraction move—dropped something, faked a stumble—only for Brick to grab his wrist mid-motion. “Pathetic.”

  Another tried to time his move while Brick was distracted talking to someone else. Brick didn’t even turn his head. “If I can feel it, you fail.”

  One poor guy thought he was being slick and sneakily reached right for Brick’s pocket. Brick just stared at him. “Really?”

  Then came Chloe’s turn.

  She walked up, asked Brick a completely random question about the best way to bypass a motion sensor, nodded thoughtfully at his answer, and walked away.

  Brick patted his pockets—then froze.

  Chloe twirled the key around her finger.

  Brick scowled. “What the hell?”

  Chloe just smiled. “You have blind spots too.”

  The other recruits stared. Someone whispered, “She’s gotta be a plant to make us look bad.”

  ***

  The next challenge: navigate an urban obstacle course using parkour techniques.

  Most recruits struggled. One tripped over a waist-high ledge. Another face-planted trying to vault a railing. One guy barely made it over a dumpster before collapsing in a wheezing heap.

  Chloe? Cleared the entire course in six seconds, landing in a perfect crouch at the finish line.

  Brick smiled. “Well done.”

  Chloe dusted off her hands. “I have nimble legs.”

  One recruit, Jake, pointed at her. “She’s a plant.”

  Chloe blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Nobody’s that good! You don’t just show up to security school already loaded with elite skills!”

  Chloe smirked. “Maybe you guys are just bad.”

  Utterly unbothered by the death glares her fellow recruits were throwing her way. Making friends? Yeah, that wasn’t exactly her specialty. She might be on track to becoming the world’s best thief, but the world’s best at winning people over? Not even close.

  Besides, that was Jamal’s job.

  ***

  The challenge: escape from zip ties, duct tape, and handcuffs within five minutes.

  Brick went down the line, securing each recruit. “This is about patience, problem-solving, and—Chloe, why the hell are you already free?”

  She shrugged and tossed the zip ties onto the table.

  “I, uh, started early?”

  Brick glared. “You weren’t supposed to start yet.”

  “Oh. Whoops. Do you want to tie me up again, Mr. Instructor?” she said with a saucy smile.

  The other recruits collectively lost their minds.

  Sarah, one of the few who hadn’t completely given up, threw up her hands. “ARE YOU EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE HERE?!”

  Chloe just grinned.

  ***

  By the end of the day, Chloe wasn’t just acing the course—she was demoralizing the entire class.

  People whispered when she walked by. Someone called her a hacker. Another muttered something about her being a government experiment gone rogue.

  One poor recruit, after watching her bypass yet another impossible challenge, just threw up his hands. “I don’t even know why I’m here anymore.”

  Brick? He just sighed, rubbed his temples, and muttered, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

  Chloe? She just stretched, rolled her shoulders, and grinned.

  Day three. Absolute domination.

  This was supposed to be a six-month intense training course—grueling, in-depth, designed to break recruits down and build them back up.

  But Chloe?

  She’d been mowing through the material like a training montage on steroids.

  They hadn’t even handed out all the course materials yet, but the ones they had—textbooks, security manuals, training videos—she’d already burned through. Memorized. Applied. Perfected.

  At this rate?

  She’d be done in a couple more days.

  ****