"You used me," Agatha breathed. The betrayal cut deeper than any bullet. Not because of the money, but because she’d admired Eve. She’d respected the quiet efficiency, the way Eve could sweet-talk a security guard into handing over his keys while looking like a lost librarian. They were supposed to be partners.
She turned to Agatha, and for a wild, hopeful moment, Agatha thought she saw an apology forming. Instead, Eve pressed a small, smooth object into Agatha’s palm. A spare key.
"No, you won't," Eve said, and for the first time, her sea-glass eyes looked genuinely sad. "Because you still want to believe I'll show up at that villa. And that's the cruelest con of all—making someone hope."
"You set the charges early," Agatha said, not a question. Her voice was low, a viper’s whisper.
Here is the story, "Long Con Part 3: Agatha Vega & Eve Sweet." The safe room was a tomb of cold steel and silent alarms. Agatha Vega, her razor-sharp bob now dusted with plaster dust from the explosion two floors down, pressed a fresh magazine into her sidearm. Across the cramped space, Eve Sweet was doing the same, her movements unnervingly calm, her candy-pink manicure incongruous against the matte black weapon.
"No more secrets," Agatha demanded, pressing her forehead close to Eve's. It was an intimate, threatening gesture. "After this. We're even. Or I swear to God, I'll find you."