THE CHRISTMAS HEIST

THE INTERVIEW

I'd reinvented myself so many times, I sometimes forgot which version was real.

Monday morning, I became Elena Hartley: Yale graduate, art history minor, five years of executive experience at a boutique consulting firm in Boston. Impeccable references. Flawless resume. A woman who wore cream silk blouses and knew the difference between a Bordeaux and a Burgundy.

The kind of woman who could walk into Frost Industries and belong there.

I stood outside the gleaming tower of glass and steel, watching my reflection shimmer in the revolving doors. Charcoal pencil skirt, tailored blazer, heels that added three inches and cost more than I'd ever admit. My dark hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, my makeup subtle but precise. I looked expensive. Trustworthy. Exactly the kind of polished professional a billionaire CEO would want guarding his calendar.

I looked nothing like the girl who'd grown up stealing quarters from laundromat change machines.

One more con, I told myself. One more, and then you're free.

The lie tasted familiar on my tongue.

I took a breath—Elena's breath, confident and calm—and walked through those doors into the lion's den.

The lobby was all marble and modern art, the kind of space designed to make you feel small. A receptionist with perfect teeth directed me to the forty-second floor. Executive offices. Where the real money lived.

My heart hammered against my ribs as the elevator climbed, but my face stayed serene. I'd learned a long time ago how to hide fear. How to smile when I wanted to run. How to walk toward danger like it was exactly where I wanted to be.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened.

And I stepped into the most beautiful office I'd ever seen.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, the winter morning light turning everything silver and gold. The furniture was mid-century modern, all clean lines and rich wood. Original artwork on the walls—I recognized a Rothko, a Hopper, something that might have been a Picasso sketch. This wasn't just wealth. This was taste.

"Ms. Hartley?"

I turned, and my carefully constructed composure nearly slipped.

Because Zane Frost wasn't what I expected.

I'd seen photos, of course—Mr. Murky's dossier had been thorough. But photographs were flat, lifeless things. They didn't capture the way someone moved, the intelligence in their eyes, the presence that filled a room without effort.

Zane Frost was tall, lean, with dark hair touched with silver at the temples that made him look distinguished rather than old. Thirty-three, according to his file, but he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who'd never had to prove anything to anyone. His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, and his eyes—

God, his eyes.

They were the color of smoke, sharp and assessing, and they saw too much.

"Mr. Frost." I extended my hand, Elena's smile in place—warm but professional, interested but not too eager. "Thank you for seeing me."

His handshake was firm, brief, and left my skin tingling. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"Coffee would be wonderful. Black, please."

He moved to a side table where an actual French press waited—not the break room swill most offices served. He poured two cups with the ease of someone who didn't need an assistant to handle these small courtesies.

Points to him for that. I'd conned enough rich men to know the ones who treated service staff like furniture.

He handed me the cup and settled into the chair across from me—not behind his massive desk, I noticed. Interesting. He wanted this to feel like a conversation, not an interrogation.

"Your resume is impressive," he said, those gray eyes never leaving my face. "Yale, five years at Whitmore Consulting, glowing references. Why leave Boston?"

I'd prepared for this question. Had rehearsed the answer until it sounded like truth.

"I loved my work there, but I'm ready for something more challenging. Whitmore is a small firm—brilliant people, but limited scope. Frost Industries has its hands in everything: tech, real estate, sustainable energy, art acquisition and preservation. I want to be somewhere I can grow, where every day brings something new."

"And you're not intimidated by the pace? This job requires someone who can juggle multiple priorities, often with very little notice. My schedule can be... unpredictable."

"I thrive in chaos, Mr. Frost. Structure is easy. It's the unexpected that keeps things interesting."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Spoken like someone who's never worked for me."

"Then I suppose I'll find out if I'm as adaptable as I think I am."

He leaned back, studying me over the rim of his coffee cup. I held his gaze, kept my posture relaxed, let silence stretch between us. Most people got uncomfortable with silence, rushed to fill it with nervous chatter.

I'd learned that the person who speaks first usually loses.

"Tell me about the Whitmore account you managed last year," he said finally. "The one with the museum acquisition."

My pulse jumped. That hadn't been in the resume Mr. Murky provided—it was deeper background, the kind of detail only someone who'd actually checked my references would know.

He'd done his homework. Of course he had.

I launched into the fabricated story, keeping my tone measured, adding small details that made it feel real. The fictional museum director who'd been difficult to work with. The rare manuscript we'd tracked down through three private collections. The delicate negotiations that had taken four months to close.

I'd memorized every word of this lie, but I made it sound spontaneous. Natural. Like I was remembering rather than reciting.

Zane listened without interrupting, his expression giving nothing away. But I felt his attention like a physical thing, focused and intense. He wasn't just hearing my words—he was reading my body language, my micro-expressions, the tiny tells that separated truth from deception.

I'd spent years perfecting my poker face. Right now, I needed every skill I'd ever learned.

"And the director?" he asked when I finished. "Dr. Calloway. How did you handle his... shall we say, perfectionism?"

Another test. Another detail he'd verified.

"I learned early on that Dr. Calloway didn't just want results—he wanted to understand every step of the process. So instead of giving him weekly updates, I brought him into the negotiations. Made him feel like a partner rather than a client. Once he trusted that I respected his expertise, he gave me the space to do my job."

"Managing egos."

"Understanding what people really need, beyond what they say they want."

Something shifted in his expression—not quite approval, but interest. Real interest.

"I have to tell you, Ms. Hartley, I've interviewed six candidates for this position. All of them had impressive credentials. Most of them made it through about ten minutes before I knew they weren't right."

My stomach tightened. "And me?"

"You've been here twenty minutes, and I haven't been bored once." He set down his coffee cup and stood, moving to the windows. I rose with him, maintaining that careful professional distance. "This job isn't just about managing my calendar or screening my calls. I need someone who can anticipate problems before they happen. Someone who can handle sensitive information with discretion. Someone I can trust."

The word trust hit me like a slap.

"I understand," I said, my voice steady even as something twisted in my chest. "Confidentiality is paramount."

He turned to face me, and for a moment we just stood there, backlit by winter sunlight, the city sprawling below us like a promise or a threat.

"Why do you really want this job, Elena?"

The question caught me off guard. Not the words—I'd expected some version of that. But the way he asked it. Quiet. Direct. Like he actually wanted to know the truth.

I almost told him.

Almost said: Because I don't have a choice. Because I'm trapped and drowning and this is the only way out. Because every decision I've ever made has led me here, to this moment, to lying to someone who deserves better.

Instead, I gave him Elena's truth—the one I'd crafted so carefully it almost felt real.

"Because I'm tired of playing it safe. I'm Twenty-eight years old, and I've spent my entire career being careful, being perfect, doing exactly what's expected. I want to work somewhere that challenges me. Somewhere that matters. And Frost Industries—" I met his eyes. "Everything I've read about this company says it's run by someone who actually gives a damn. About innovation. About sustainability. About doing things right, not just profitably. That's rare, Mr. Frost. That's worth taking a risk for."

Silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid.

Then he smiled—a real smile this time, warm and slightly surprised, like I'd said something unexpected.

"When can you start?"