What We Steal Before The Fire

The Last Gala

The mansion was on fire before they even reached the door.

Not the wildfire — that was still a mile out, creeping toward the hill like a patient predator. This was something else. Bonfires lit the driveway. Torches lined the steps. Flame dancers performed on the lawn, twirling fire on chains, their faces painted gold. Victor Pascale had turned his last gala into a celebration of the very thing that was coming to kill him.

Margot stepped out of the car in Elena's green dress. Ronan followed in his charcoal suit. Around them, guests in evening wear pretended not to notice the orange glow on the horizon.

"This is insane," Ronan murmured.

"This is Pascale." Margot took his arm. "He wants to die in a burning house. He just doesn't know it yet."

Graves met them at the door. His silver hair was immaculate. His eyes were not. There was something in them tonight — something that looked almost like exhaustion.

"Mrs. Cade," he said. "Mr. Cade."

"Graves." Margot's voice was Elena's — breathy, hesitant, perfect. "Lovely party."

"Isn't it?" He stepped aside. "Mr. Pascale is eager to see you both."

The ballroom was a fever dream. Crystal chandeliers reflected the firelight from the windows. A string quartet played something mournful and Vivaldi. Guests drank champagne and pretended the evacuation alerts on their phones were a mistake.

Pascale stood at the center of it all, holding court. He wore white — a deliberate choice, Margot realized. He wanted to look like a ghost.

"Mrs. Cade," he said, taking her hand. His fingers were warm. Too warm. "You came."

"I said I would."

"You said you'd think about my offer." His pale blue eyes flicked to Ronan. "I see you brought company."

"She goes where I go," Ronan said flatly.

"How romantic." Pascale released Margot's hand. "Dance with me."

It wasn't a request.

The dance floor cleared. The quartet shifted into a waltz. Pascale pulled Margot close — closer than necessary — and began to move.

"You're trembling," he said.

"I'm cold."

"Liar." He spun her. Caught her. "You're afraid. Good. Fear keeps us honest."

Margot said nothing. Her eyes found Ronan across the room. He stood by the champagne tower, watching, his hands in his pockets, his face unreadable.

"Elena was afraid of me too," Pascale continued. "At first. Then she learned to love it. The danger. The uncertainty. The knowledge that I could end her at any moment." He smiled. "Some women need that."

"Elena tried to leave you."

"She tried to become someone else." His grip tightened on her waist. "You understand that, don't you? The desire to disappear. To wake up as someone new." His voice dropped. "I'm offering you that. A new life. A new name. You won't have to be Margot anymore. You won't have to be anyone you don't want to be."

"I want to be myself."

"Do you even know who that is?"

The music swelled. The fire glowed through the windows. And Margot, for the first time in years, answered without thinking.

"No," she said. "But I'm going to find out."

She pulled away. Left him on the dance floor.

Ronan was at her side in an instant. "What did he say?"

"Nothing I haven't heard before." She took his hand. Squeezed. "The vault. Now."

---

They moved through the service corridors like shadows.

The mansion was chaos — guests everywhere, servers carrying trays, security guards distracted by the fire. No one looked twice at a man and a woman in evening wear walking with purpose.

The study door was unlocked.

Graves was waiting inside.

Margot froze. Ronan's hand went to his jacket — not a weapon, but the lighter. His father's Zippo. The only thing he had left to burn with.

"Relax," Graves said. His voice was tired. "I'm not here to stop you."

"Then why are you here?" Ronan asked.

Graves looked at Margot. Really looked. The way a man looks at something he's been avoiding for years.

"Elena was a friend," he said. "She came to me before she died. Asked me to help her leave. I told her it was too dangerous." His jaw tightened. "The next morning, she was at the bottom of the pool."

"You think Pascale killed her."

"I know he did." Graves stepped aside, revealing the walnut panel. The vault. "I've served that monster for twenty years. I've watched him destroy everyone who tried to leave. I won't watch it again."

He pressed his palm to the wall. The biometric scanner beeped.

"Graves," Margot said. "Your handprint —"

"Elena gave me access years ago. In case of emergency." He smiled. It was a sad smile, the smile of a man who had waited too long to do the right thing. "This is the emergency."

The vault door swung open.

Inside: the letter. Elena's confession. The proof that would free Ronan's sister.

But also something else.

Dozens of photographs. Margot's face, from every angle. Following her from the penthouse. Entering the mansion. Kissing Ronan in the car.

Pascale had been watching them for weeks.

"He knew," Margot whispered. "He knew everything."

"Of course he did." Graves's voice was heavy. "He wanted you to try. He wanted to see if you could become her. The heist was never the point. You were."

Ronan grabbed the letter. Shoved it into his jacket. "We need to go."

"We need to burn this place down," Margot said.

"Not yet." Graves grabbed her arm. "Pascale has a dead man's switch. If he dies, or if the vault is opened without his authorization, everything inside is sent to the press. The letter. The photographs. Everything."

"Then how do we stop him?"

"You don't." Graves released her. "You run. You take the letter and you run. Let the fire take the rest."

A crash from downstairs. Screaming. The wildfire had reached the mansion.

"He's coming," Ronan said.

They ran.

---

The hallway was smoke. The stairs were chaos. Guests pushed past them, streaming toward the exits, their evening wear stained with ash.

Pascale stood at the bottom of the stairs. White suit. Gold ring. Pale eyes that saw everything.

"Leaving so soon?" he called.

Margot didn't answer. She pulled Ronan toward the service exit — the door Graves had shown her, the one that led to the garage, to the car, to safety.

Pascale's security blocked the way.

"Let them go," Graves said.

The guards looked at him. At Pascale. At the fire visible through every window.

"Do it," Pascale said quietly. "Let them go."

Margot turned. She couldn't help it.

"Why?"

Pascale smiled. It was the most honest expression she had ever seen on his face.

"Because I want to see what you become," he said. "Elena became nothing. She disappeared into the water and left no trace. But you —" He tilted his head. "You might become something worth watching."

"Then watch this," Margot said.

She took Ronan's hand and walked out the door.

---

The garage was filling with smoke. The car was where they'd left it. Ronan started the engine. Margot clutched the letter to her chest.

Behind them, the mansion burned.

"They'll die," she said. "Pascale. Graves. Everyone still inside."

"Graves made his choice."

"He helped us."

"Because he couldn't live with himself otherwise." Ronan pulled out of the garage, tires screeching on ash-covered pavement. "That's not the same as being saved."

Margot watched the mansion shrink in the rearview mirror. Flames licked at its roof. The windows shattered one by one, like eyes closing forever.

"Do you think he'll survive?"

Ronan was quiet for a long moment.

"I hope so," he said finally. "I want him to live long enough to lose everything."

The car sped down the hill, away from the fire, toward the highway, toward Fiona, toward whatever came next.

Margot didn't look back.

She was done with ghosts.