Los Angeles. Bridger Safe & Vault.
Stella Bridger sat at her workbench, idly manipulating the tumblers of a high-security lock.
To anyone else, this mechanism was a fortress. To Stella—widely regarded as the best safe-cracker in the world—it was a thirty-second puzzle.
But today, thirty minutes had passed, and the lock remained shut.
Stella was distracted. Her fingers moved with rote muscle memory, but her mind was miles away, replaying a memory she couldn't shake.
If her colleagues saw her now, they'd be shocked. Stella was professionalism personified. She had rejected countless suitors and lucrative, shady contracts to maintain her legitimate business. Seeing her zone out over a standard deadbolt was unheard of.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound snapped her back to reality.
"Coming!"
Stella jumped, her tools clattering on the desk. She took a deep breath, composing herself, and quickly reset the lock. Click. Open.
"Come in," she called out, burying her face in a schematic to hide her fluster.
The door opened. Maria, her receptionist, stepped in holding a large bouquet of red roses.
"Miss Bridger? Another delivery for you."
Stella's heart skipped a beat, then immediately sank. The hope that had flared in her chest died as quickly as it came.
"Thank you, Maria," she said, her voice flat. "Who's it from?"
Maria checked the card and shrugged apologetically. "Mr. Charlie Croker again. He's persistent."
Stella forced a polite, tight-lipped smile.
Charlie Croker. Her father's former partner.
Intellectually, Stella knew John Bridger's death wasn't Charlie's fault. They had pulled off the Venice heist together, and it was Steve—the traitor—who had pulled the trigger. But emotionally? Charlie was the one who lured her father back into "one last job." If Charlie hadn't called, John Bridger would still be alive, retired in Philadelphia.
She had agreed to join Charlie's crew for the revenge heist against Steve because she needed closure. She wasn't a killer; she couldn't hunt Steve down herself. Stealing his gold was the only justice she could exact.
But that plan had gone sideways.
A wildcard had entered the game. A young, mysterious man who didn't just steal the gold—he stole the vengeance.
Stella stared at the roses, her disappointment palpable.
"Just... leave them there," she said quietly.
"Oh?" Maria paused, surprised. "Leave them? Usually, you tell me to trash them or take them home."
Stella didn't answer immediately. Maria, misinterpreting the silence, beamed. "Finally warming up to Mr. Croker, huh? He seems nice."
She placed the vase on the corner of the desk and quietly exited.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Stella's gaze drifted to the flowers. The scent of roses filled the room, cloying and sweet.
She wasn't thinking about Charlie.
She was thinking about him.
Hunter Sun.
"Thief," she whispered, her fingers tracing the edge of the workbench. "You stole everything."
It had been weeks since that night at her father's secret safe house. Hunter had tracked her down, revealed he had killed Steve, and handed her the proof. He had done what Charlie couldn't—he had delivered absolute justice.
And then... things had escalated.
Fuelled by adrenaline, gratitude, and a chemistry she couldn't deny, Stella had crossed a line. In the very room where her father used to teach her how to listen to tumblers, she had let Hunter unlock her.
It was intense. Passionate. A release of grief and desire she hadn't known she was holding back.
But the next morning, panic set in. The reality of sleeping with a dangerous, unknown operator terrified her. So she ran. She took his Mustang and fled back to the city, leaving him behind without a word.
A week later, guilt and longing drove her back. She returned to the safe house, hoping... expecting to see him.
Empty.
No note. No angry text. Just silence.
Hunter Sun had vanished as ghost-like as he had appeared. He had swooped in, avenged her father, taken her to bed, and then disappeared into the ether.
"Liar," Stella hissed at the empty room, tears pricking her eyes. "Bastard."
She wiped her face angrily. Why did she care? He was a criminal. A killer. She should be glad he was gone.
But she wasn't. She missed him. She missed the danger, the competence, the way he looked at her like she was the only safe he wanted to crack.
Knock. Knock.
Stella jumped again. She sniffled, composing her face into a mask of professional indifference.
"Come in!" she barked, annoyed at the interruption.
The door opened.
Stella's breath hitched in her throat.
Standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with that infuriatingly charming smile, was Hunter Sun.
He looked exactly as she remembered—handsome, calm, and utterly unapologetic.
"Hello, Stella," he said softly.
In an instant, the anger evaporated. The resentment melted.
Stella stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Her heart hammered against her ribs—a mix of joy, relief, and a furious desire to both slap him and kiss him.
The thief of hearts had returned to the scene of the crime.
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