I scrambled for my phone, my fingers trembling as I dialled a number I knew by heart but rarely used. It was answered on the second ring.
"Yes, Madam?"
"Hello! Hey, sorry to disturb you, I know it's late."
"Madam, it's quite alright. How may I be of service?" The voice on the other end was Silas—the family's eternally discreet solicitor. My family, for centuries, had required such services. The Silas family had served me for generations, passing down the knowledge of what I truly am from father to son, mother to daughter, always maintaining the careful fiction that I was simply an eccentric heiress with unusual needs.
"Yes, I need a favour. Can you try to get the security footage from The Grind? The coffee shop near my university? The one Mrs. Backston owns? From about eight hours ago, earlier today."
"Of course, Madam. May I ask what this is regarding?"
"Oh, it's nothing serious," I said, layering my voice with a light, unconcerned tone I did not feel. "I just... left something important there earlier. I want to see if someone picked it up." The lie was smooth and practiced, worn smooth by centuries of use. "How soon can you get it?"
Silas paused for a moment. When he spoke, his breath carried a weight of gentle disbelief—he knew perfectly well it was a lie. But he also knew his role, knew the boundaries of our relationship, knew that some questions were not meant to be asked.
"I understand, Madam. I'll make a call. Give me ten minutes."
I hung up and waited, each second stretching into an eternity.