### Chapter 8 I weave my way through the throng of elegantly dressed guests, my heart racing as I step into the vibrant chaos of the grand ballroom. The air buzzes with laughter and conversation, and the atmosphere is imbued with a kaleidoscope of colors, from flowing gowns to sharp tuxedos. Intricate floral designs adorn the walls, climbing toward the soaring ceiling, creating a dreamlike ambience that feels both enchanting and constricting. Each breath I take is laced with the heady mix of flowers and perfumed bodies—a cocktail of scents that teeters on the edge of overwhelming. “Anastasia,” Nikolai’s voice cuts through the clamor like a knife. “In thirty minutes, you’ll need to head toward the Vault.” I exhale slowly, forcing my features into a mask of calm. This plan felt audacious, thrilling even when I first hatched it. But now, as reality sets in, I find myself paralyzed with fear. The weight of expectation hangs heavy—Anastasia Volkov, the audacious thief. How did I get tangled in a web of my own making? “Would you like a glass of champagne, Miss?” a youthful server interrupts my spiraling thoughts. He can’t be more than seventeen, and the wonder in his wide eyes suggests this is his first venture into such an elaborate affair. Perfect. If he’s still starry-eyed, perhaps he can be turned to my advantage. “Yes, please,” I respond, summoning every ounce of charm into my smile. It’s important that I exude confidence, even if every nerve in my body is screaming otherwise. He almost spills the tray when I reach for a glass, but he catches himself just in time—a promising sign of nerves on his part. “Will that be all?” he asks, his youthful voice trembling slightly. I lean in, lowering my tone to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, do you enjoy working here?” His eyes widen, and for a moment, he’s a fish gasping for air, trying to articulate a response. “Of cour…course,” he manages, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. I place a reassuring hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “Don’t worry. I promise it’s not a trick question. I have a small favor to ask, though it might cost you your job.” “W-What’s in it for me?” he replies, curiosity piqued. With a flick of my wrist, I open my clutch just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the stack of bills nestled inside—more money than he likely sees in a month’s worth of shifts. His brows shoot up, and I watch as greed momentarily wrestles with caution. “Listen closely,” I whisper, inching closer. “In thirty minutes, I need a distraction. Can you do that for me?” “Yes! I-I can definitely do that,” he stammers, nodding vigorously, enthusiasm eclipsing his initial trepidation. “Perfect. Wait for my signal by that doorway, and I’ll make my move.” We exchange knowing smiles, a shared understanding binding us. With that small victory handled, I begin circulating among the guests, each minute ticking like a bomb. My heart thunders in my chest, dread creeping in with every passing second. What if I had lost my mind? This audacious act could topple at any moment, but there was no turning back now. “Where’s your brother?” a silky voice snakes through the crowd, pulling my attention with a jolt. I find myself face-to-face with Bash Everette, the youngest of the notorious clan. My lips compress as I fire back with caution. “Bash,” I reply, barely masking the tension lacing my voice. “Stasia,” he counters, his playful smirk sending unwelcome shivers down my spine. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t call me that.” “Princess?” He leans in, his gaze appraising, and my skin prickles under the intensity of his interest. Bash is dangerously charming, and I feel every thought I shouldn’t be having about him flare to life in my mind. Fighting to regain my composure, I swallow hard. “What was your question again?” His voice drips with nonchalance, but I can hear the edge—“Where is your brother?” Panic surges through me. If I intend to masquerade as him inside the Vault, he must be present at the gala. My heart races as I frantically scan the ballroom, desperately seeking a plausible excuse. “Oh, he’s…” I stall before pointing, “over there.” Bash’s brow furrows skeptically. “Is he?” Damn his perceptive nature. Why couldn’t he just play the clueless man-whore stereotype for once? “Well, he might have moved. He’s around somewhere,” I backtrack, imbued with false confidence. His smirk broadens, and doubt drips from his tone. “Somewhere, huh?” “This is the second time I’ve found you alone at one of these events.” His gaze bore into me, challenging. “Haven’t you learned what goes down behind closed doors yet? Or perhaps you’re in need of a refresher?” I stammer, feeling flames lick my cheeks. “Just because you think inappropriate thoughts doesn’t mean you must vocalize them.” The air around us thickens as he leans in, whispering against my ear, “Inappropriate? You are my inappropriate thoughts, Princess.” The warmth of his breath sends tremors through my core, and I fight to keep my composure. How I want to flee, but something in his eyes holds me captive. “What game are you playing?” I manage to ask, breathlessly. “Not sure yet, but you’re certainly a captivating plaything.” The server’s frantic wave cuts through the simmering tension, and I realize I’ve squandered too much precious time. I cannot draw attention, not now—not when I must vanish. “I… I need to find my brother,” I blurt out, urgency bubbling under the surface of my words. “And I want to know what you’re up to,” he replies, amusement dancing in his eyes. My frustration simmers just beneath the surface. “I’m not up to anything,” I insist. “Whatever you say, Princess.” “Don’t call me that! It’s…” I falter, “Anastasia.” “I’m aware,” he replies, his smirk twisting into something playful—and infuriating. “Miss Anastasia Katrina Volkov, to be precise.” “Exactly. Now, please, refer to me as Miss Anastasia.” He raises an eyebrow, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Is that an order?” I lock eyes with the young server, who is rapidly losing his composure. The waitstaff must stay moving. “If that’s how you wish to interpret it,” I say, feeling the urgency expand within me. In a display that both annoys and amuses me, Bash steps back and bows slightly. “I look forward to our next encounter, Stasia.” Not if I can help it. I press my lips into a tight line, brushing past him as I make my way toward the server. Once Bash is out of sight, I hand the young man the cash without hesitation. In an instant, he tips his tray, the contents crashing down—bubbles and liquid splashing across a well-dressed woman’s gown with a resounding shriek of dismay. I slip into the shadows, the thrill of my calculated distraction making my pulse race. The plan had unfolded with such beautiful precision; I would have to find a way to tip him again as a thank-you. With my heart still racing, I slip away, blending into the crowd, adrenaline flooding my veins as the night unfolds—my escape just beginning.