My sister held out her hand six days before Christmas and said, “Give me your $34,000 bonus. I deserve it more—I have kids to feed.” When I refused, my mother grabbed my purse, my father told me not to be dramatic, and two days later the check cleared with a forged signature. I didn’t call the police that night. I called my actor boyfriend, and he asked whether I wanted revenge—or theater...

Sam’s apartment in downtown Sacramento smelled like stale espresso, leather jackets, and the faint, sweet scent of stage makeup.

When I opened the front door, I was greeted by four people sitting in a semicircle around his coffee table.

There was Sam, sitting in his faded canvas armchair with a notebook balanced on his knee; Clara, a thirty-one-year-old stage manager who could intimidate a union electrician with a single arch of her eyebrow; Julian, a broad-shouldered classical actor who spoke every sentence like he was projecting to the second balcony; and Chloe, a twenty-six-year-old prop master and costume designer whose hair was currently dyed a fiery shade of copper.

"Iris," Sam said, standing up immediately and pulling me into a firm, warm embrace. He smelled like clove tea and rain. "Sit down. Take off your coat. Clara has already drawn up a preliminary timeline of your family’s emotional vulnerabilities."

I blinked, letting Sam guide me to the sofa. "A timeline?"

Clara clicked her pen. "Iris, darling, every great fraud depends on the mark believing they are the smartest person in the room. Your sister, Darcy, suffers from acute delusion; your mother, chronic martyr complex; your father, aggressive complacency. Together, they form the trifecta of easy targets."

"We aren't going to break into their house," I clarified quickly, sitting up. "I don't want to do anything illegal."

"Illegal?" Julian scoffed, waving a grand hand through the air as if dismissing a minor technicality. "My dear Iris, crime is for amateurs. We are talking about art. We are talking about immersive, site-specific psychological theater."

Sam knelt in front of me, resting his hands on my knees. His dark eyes were alight with an intense, brilliant focus. "Iris, you produce small and midsize music acts. You know how to build a production, manage a budget, and orchestrate an audience. What we are going to do over the next six days is produce the most expensive production of your family's life—and they are going to fund it themselves."

"How?" I asked, my heart beginning to race with a mixture of terror and dark, delicious anticipation.

Chloe pulled a thick sketchbook from her bag, opening it to a detailed floor plan of my parents' house on Garfield Way.

"Step one," Chloe grinned, her eyes sparkling. "The illusion of instant wealth. Darcy stole thirty-four thousand dollars because she thinks money is a static number sitting in a bank account. She doesn't understand liquidity, tax liabilities, or institutional oversight. So, we give her what she's always wanted: an invitation to the top table."

"Step two," Clara added, tapping her notepad. "The audit. On Wednesday night, your parents are hosting their annual Christmas Eve neighborhood cocktail party. Forty people, catered finger foods, local country club neighbors. It is the center of your mother's social calendar."

Sam leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, velvet purr. "Julian is going to play Arthur Sterling—a senior forensic auditor from the California Franchise Tax Board, investigating an anonymous report of unauthorized joint-account liquidation involving a high-profile production agency."

I gasped softly. "A tax auditor?"

"Not just any auditor," Julian beamed, puffing out his chest. "A man who treats tax fraud as a personal insult to the Republic. I’ve already bought the vintage wool coat and the gold-rimmed spectacles from wardrobe."

"And what about Darcy?" I asked.

"Darcy," Sam smiled slowly, "is going to realize that the thirty-four thousand dollars she deposited into your mother's account didn't just clear. It triggered an automatic federal anti-money-laundering flag on joint accounts with unverified commercial signatures."

I looked around the room at the four of them. They weren't just my boyfriend and his theater friends. In that moment, they were an elite squad of theatrical mercenaries.