Heiress Takes All

by Emily Wibberley

I mean when the wedding is over. You can even go through my phone. Read every message I’ve ever sent. I honestly don’t care. I don’t have anything to hide.”

Such a martyr.

The fact is, the fervent concern in Jackson’s voice unlocks a few of the doors in my heart I would rather remain closed. I find desperation written everywhere on his features, filling his eyes.

“Your dad isn’t just an asshole. He’s powerful. Even dangerous. Same with the rest of the men in his circle. If any of them finds out what you’re up to,” he says urgently, “they’ll crush you. They’ll ruin your future—they don’t think you have one in the first place. But I know you do.”

I hate how his validation works into me. It’s like every interaction I’ve unfortunately had with him the past couple hours. Painful reminders of pleasure gone.

With Jackson, I glimpsed a future perfect enough that I could maybe escape the unforgiving pieces of my past. I just remember feeling terrifyingly happy.

Happiness is like anything—it can be stolen.

Only the younger contingent, the social media stars in flashy outfits, look bored.

I feel like they would regardless.

“Five hundred dollars of Nobu sushi,” he whispers with sultry promise. “My very own Patek Philippe Nautilus.” I smile for real when I realize he’s naming purchases he’s going to make and stuff he’s going to do in Los Angeles with all the extra money the heist will leave him. “Nights in the Viceroy L’Ermitage whenever I feel like it,” he murmurs. “Room service and everything.”

It would have been easier if Jackson hadn’t come today. If he’d spent the day with Kelly Devine or whatever other girl he’s trying to hook up with. But now that he is here, I realize I’m glad. Jackson deserves to see this. To know how I felt.

Rook was prepped for this. While he was hired for his baking expertise, his athleticism will help with what comes next. Deonte sweeps through the crowd, champagne tray held high.

“The safe is programmed to text Dash’s phone every time it opens,” I explain to Tom. “His phone is…” Tom’s eyes widen in impressed comprehension. “Let me guess. On the young man now wringing champagne from his suit?” he asks. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “My father’s assistant,” I confirm, waiting for the rest of Phase Four to unfold. Instead of the head caterer arriving on the scene and reprimanding the waiter he definitely didn’t hire or train, McCoy will swoop in. He’ll discreetly but professionally escort Deonte off the premises, looking to the crowd like security taking care of the disruption. Except in reality, Deonte will join Cass in the van.

She is smart.

“I’ll—I’ll pay,” he interjects. Even Deonte looks openly startled now. Jackson continues, gaining confidence. “I was in his way. It’s one iPhone, man. I’ll pay.” He wasn’t in his way. Not good.

Not only is it horribly messy from the planning perspective, it’s one more reminder I don’t need of how revenge against Jackson is something I desperately wish I didn’t want. After all, Jackson doesn’t have fifteen hundred dollars. Jackson mowed lawns to afford the pair of Adidas I really wanted for Christmas. He’s just offering out of reckless kindness. Shameless generosity.

His offer mollifies Quinn, who’s realized he’s making a scene. “I’ll find you,” he promises Jackson, who nods with the same glorious, ridiculous confidence. In the ensuing moments, I note McCoy moving in. The relief I feel when he escorts Deonte off, according to plan, is immeasurable.

“I mean, he clearly sucks, but I’m guessing he was a jerk about the phone because your dad is a jerk to him. Now he’s going to lose his livelihood because of our scheme?”

When I reached out to Tom Pham, having seen his social media posts on looking for funding for his Hollywood foray, he invited me to the new “gourmet frozen yogurt” place in his neighborhood.

Unlike with other members of my crew, I opted to come right out with my plan. When he inquired why we were meeting, I said, “I know you’re looking for funding for LA. I want your help stealing millions of dollars from my shitty dad.”

Instead, when I pitched him on the heist, he stuck his plastic spoon into his Froyo. “Fun,” he said. “I’m in.”

He watches me with the same exact expression now, waiting for the rationale for my remorselessness for Quinn. “He helped cover up the affair my dad had while married to my mom,” I say flatly. Tom receives my explanation. “You really hold a grudge,” he remarks.

“While I’m very grateful for the opportunity for my personal gain, I do want to flag how your stone-cold drive for vengeance may not be the healthiest coping mechanism.”

Thomas Pham is the one person in my crew, the one person in the world, on whom I could rely for freedom from judgment or inquiry, even in the midst of my inaugural heist. What I need from him is a co-conspirator, a dashing decoy, not someone to help me soul search or question my motives.

He’s evading. Playing with me, probably. He’s him. I lean closer, holding his gaze. I’m sure only he can see what’s hiding in my sweet expression.

“I guess what I’m saying is,” he replies, “hold your grudge. Get your vengeance. Wonderful, as long as it’s not… against yourself.

In this very garden, I would play games with my mom. Somersault contests. Horse pretend, which was exactly what the activity sounds like. Paddleball and, of course, my favorite. Hide-and-seek. In the hydrangeas, I would crouch, feeling as if I were fleeing not only my indulgent pursuer, but the entire world.

We are not discussing my disastrously failed relationship. Not in the middle of Phase Four, not ever.

He leans in, preserving what looks like event security informing the groom’s daughter of some routine goings-on in the house. What he whispers to me is nothing routine, however. “Cass and the van,” he says, “are gone.”

I know we don’t have long. If Cass was caught, it’s only a matter of time before the wedding is searched for co-conspirators, whether because she gives us up or they go through her phone. The wise move would be to ditch our tech in the Atlantic and call the day off. Without Cass, I don’t even know how to transfer the funds. The Plan is useless. Inert. It’s excruciating—I don’t want to call off the heist, not when we have the combination to the safe in hand. Not when the only part remaining is the easiest one.

I can’t just return to this wedding and watch my father marry yet another woman who isn’t my mom. I can’t see Jackson at his side, like an incarnation of history repeating. I can’t return home, where peeling paint and medical debt wait for me. I can’t just be a bystander to the hurt in my life. I need this.

Mitchum mentioned evidence in the safe. If that doesn’t help me, I’ll steal Dash’s watches if I need to.

He’s another diamond necklace in a family obsessed with them. I have him. She wants him.

Sorry. Some security started looking around. I moved to the garage.

Security would patrol the parking. The van is more noticeable staying in one place when other vendors have come and gone. I wish I’d thought of the detail, honestly.

“You coming outside for the ceremony?” she asks expectantly. “You know, I’ve seen my dad get married before. I’m not sure it improves on second viewing,” I reply.

Burn.

Mia exchanges family secrets like currency. In fact, I’m counting on this delightful tidbit—Dash’s wayward daughter missed most of the ceremony while hooking up in the bathroom!—to make its way back to Switzerland before the bouquet has even been tossed. She’s the perfect witness.

The wedding itself is the diversion on which the entire Plan was founded. In the next fifteen minutes, we hit the safe. We have the length of my father’s nuptials to get in and out while the ceremony keeps four hundred pairs of eyes on the bride and groom. If we don’t leave the office in time, we will be caught by Dash, Maureen, Mitchum, Maureen’s maid of honor, and their officiant, Reverend Arnold, who will enter to sign the marriage license.

In the meantime, Millennium Security’s walking perimeter is forming on the ground floor of the house I once called home.

If I’m caught opening my father’s safe, I can pass it off as wanting earrings to match my necklace. If Deonte or McCoy is caught, they’re going to jail. And… I want to do this part. I didn’t orchestrate a heist just to sit on the sidelines. I will be the one to open my father’s safe. To steal from him. To take what should have been mine.

When Cass called us during the kidnapping, I noticed how, in describing the guards’ positioning during the champagne welcome, she knew exactly where they were. She could see their positions. I asked her for elaboration, and she explained, with pride visible even in iMessage, how she’d figured out she could locate the receiving signatures of their earpieces and map them onto a layout of the home and grounds. Including now. Including the “walking perimeter” in the hallways surrounding the study.

“People suck. Guys suck. I just want you to know I get it.”

Radio chatter is calling them down to the entrance, where paparazzi are trying to get in. You’re, uh, yeah, you’re in the clear.”

DASHIELL OWENS’S SECOND WIFE, MY STEPMOTHER FOR ELEVEN long months, the woman who ended my parents’ marriage, stands in front of me in a dark red gown. Lexi. She wasn’t invited to the wedding. She definitely isn’t supposed to be in Dash’s office. And she absolutely should not be standing next to the open safe.

Everything from her red lip to the thigh slit in her dress to my father’s most personal documents in her hands is screaming revenge.

An ally?

Kevin steps out from behind the door I just opened. “I told you I was a good businessman,” he says, far too smug even for Kevin Webber. “You didn’t want to work with me. She did.”

Damn it.

I don’t know how she managed to get into this wedding without an invite or how she got past the guards. Did she call the paparazzi to clear her escape route? There’s no denying she’s done some planning of her own.

Maureen is young, naive, and marrying Dash for his money. While it’s gross, it’s at least understandable. Lexi actually loved him. She’s a monster, obviously.

While Dash may have cheated on my mom, I know part of him did love her. No part of him loved Lexi. She was face-saving for him, pure and simple. He wanted his circle to consider him the winner instead of the divorcé—wanted everyone to know he could replace the job of “wife” as easily as he could replace anyone on his payroll.

I didn’t care how my dad regarded Lexi. I was hurt, and I was furious. I did everything in my power to make her uncomfortable in the house she stole from me and my mom. I undermined her at every dinner, spoke ill of her whenever I could. Dash never once reprimanded me. Which is how I know Lexi was no one to him.

One time I came over for dinner to find she had put one of my dad’s suits in the oven, destroying the suit, almost starting a fire, and ruining the twenty-thousand-dollar Wolf French Top. If I didn’t hate her, I would admire the vigor of her vengefulness.

“I mean, come on,” he offers. “You didn’t really think I wouldn’t recognize a teacher, did you?”

Idiot.

Dealing with Lexi, I felt resentment. I understood her despite the world of inconvenience she’s caused me. Knowing Kevin’s put my co-conspirator and friend on the line, what I feel is rage. “You’re desperate for people to like you,” I seethe. “But have you ever done anything worth liking?”