The Con Artist

Sara's POV

The diamond necklace glittered under the showroom's soft lights, a piece of ten stones that screamed wealth draped over black velvet. My pulse quickened, but my face was twisted into a mask of disdain, as if the sight bored me to tears.

I sank deeper into the plush velvet cushion, letting the air conditioning's chill kiss my skin. The attendants hovered, their breaths held, eyes darting between me and the necklace.

Let them wait.

A sophisticated woman like me never rushes.

I reached for the champagne flute beside me, my movements deliberate. The liquid fizzed against my lips as I sipped, savoring the crisp bite. How would they make any profit if they serve Dom Perignon to every woman who sauntered in wearing a designer blouse and an air of untouchable wealth.

Their mistake, my gain.

Their gazes trailed my hand as I set the glass down, expecting a black card to materialize. I let the silence stretch, heavy with their anticipation.

"You came highly recommended," I said at last, my voice cool, slow.

The attendants nodded like bobbleheads on a dashboard.

"But I must say..." I paused, letting the words hang, "I'm deeply disappointed."

"Ma'am-"

I raised a manicured hand, silencing the eager one mid-sentence. Her mouth snapped shut. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a silk handkerchief, dabbing the champagne from my lips with an air of sophistication. Their eyes followed every move, hungry for my card. I crossed my legs, leaning back, and fixed them with a stare.

"I don't appreciate my time being wasted," I said. "This..." I plucked the necklace from its stand, holding it to the light. "...is fake."

Gasps rippled through the private showroom, as if I'd spat on a sacred relic.

"I've handled diamonds long enough to spot a fraud," I continued, turning the necklace over in my hands. "It's pretty, sure. Glittery. You might fool an amateur, but not me."

"We're so sorry, ma'am," one stammered, her voice trembling. "But I assure you, this diamond is-"

I reached for the champagne bottle, tilting it as if to pour, silencing them again. An attendant scurried forward, eager to serve. I let him, watching the golden liquid bubble into my glass. A good bottle shouldn't go to waste.

As he poured, I slipped a hundred-dollar bill into his hand. His eyes widened, and whispers buzzed among the others.

Rule one of being a con artist: Stay one step ahead.

While they gawked at the tip, a million-dollar diamond slipped into my bag, nestled against the lining, invisible to their greedy eyes.

I stood, smoothing my skirt. "I'm highly disappointed," I said, driving the point home.

"These diamonds are real," my beneficairy insisted, his voice earnest. "We can bring a tester to confirm it."

I nodded, settling back into the chair, letting the AC's cool breath wash over me. Tonight, I'd sleep in a five-star hotel suite, the kind with crisp sheets and a view to die for. Tomorrow, I'd be a homeowner.

But my face betrayed nothing. Just the bored indifference of Evelyn Rodriguez, heiress to a fictional European empire built by a fictional Rodriguez, my father.

The attendant returned with a diamond tester, and I watched, feigning disinterest, as they scanned the necklace. The device beeped, its red light flashing. They tried again, then again, their faces paling with each failure.