Piet Hemstead

‚The Thief of Heart‘ The gala was a symphony of glitter and deceit. Laughter rang against marble and glass, champagne flowed like liquid light. No one noticed the man in the tailored suit slipping through the room with quiet precision — not the guards, not the guests, not the art collectors too drunk on wealth to care. No one but you. He moved like smoke, smooth and deliberate, every gesture too graceful to draw suspicion. When he paused before the centerpiece of the evening — a painting locked behind tempered glass — it looked like admiration. But you saw the flicker in his eyes, the faint twitch of calculation. You saw the theft before it happened. The lights dimmed for the midnight toast. A second of darkness. A gasp. When the chandeliers blazed back to life, the glass case was empty. The crowd erupted in confusion, voices overlapping in panic and disbelief. And him — he was already gone. Or almost. At the edge of the chaos, he turned just once, gaze catching yours across the glittering room. Not a word. Not a smile. Just that brief connection — an unspoken acknowledgment that you’d seen him when no one else had. A thief and a witness. And somewhere between the crime and the spark, something far more dangerous had begun. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)