Chapter 1: The Great Dog Heist

My heart stuttered. Where the hell is my dog?

The little princess of Chicago’s social scene broke into my house in the middle of the night to steal my dog. After she got him, she posted on Instagram: [Finally stole my baby back.]

The attached photo? Her and a massive Alaskan Malamute, both of them grinning like they’d just pulled off the world’s cutest bank job.

Half an hour later, a popular young actor posted a selfie from home: [Ugh, my dog’s gone, send help.]

The trending hashtags exploded. #ChicagoDogHeist #BrooksAndPrincess #DogDrama2024. Everyone started shipping the two of them as a match made in heaven.

When I finished recording and returned to my suburban house, I looked around my empty living room. The hardwood was cool under my feet, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s wind chime clanged in the breeze.

Late at night, after wrapping up a reality show, I headed home.

The air was still and cool, the hush of the suburbs wrapping around my tired body as I pulled into the driveway. My neighbor’s porch light was the only one still burning. The familiar hum of the garage door opening usually got Little Monster riled up, but tonight the silence pressed in.

Usually, as soon as my dog hears me punching in the code on the keypad, he’ll go wild scratching at the door, but tonight—nothing.

The soft beep of the keypad echoed down the hall. I braced myself for his thunderous paws, but the entryway was dead quiet. The faint scent of cinnamon from my mom’s holiday candles drifted through the house, but no happy howls greeted me.

I pushed the door open and called his name.

Little Monster.

“Little Monster, where are you? Daddy’s home.”

My voice bounced back from the empty rooms. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked as exhausted as I felt, but there was no Malamute barreling down the hall, tongue lolling.

I called a few times, but got no response.

A dull ache settled in my chest. Maybe he was hiding—sometimes he’d crawl under the dining table when he heard thunder, but there hadn’t been a storm tonight.

I started searching room by room, but after checking everywhere, he was still nowhere to be found.

Laundry room—empty. Upstairs—bed just as I left it. Backyard—gate locked, not even a paw print in the fresh mulch Dad just spread last weekend. I even checked behind the shower curtain, because sometimes he liked to hide there after a bath.

Getting worried that Little Monster was in trouble, I immediately checked the security camera footage.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up the camera app, heart pounding louder than the late-night train a few blocks away. The grainy image flickered to life.

On the screen, the little princess of Chicago’s elite, Tessa Lane, appeared, sneaking around at my door and glancing left and right.

She was bundled up in an oversized puffer, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, as if she owned the place. Tessa tapped out my passcode like she was entering her own apartment, her head swiveling like she expected paparazzi to leap out of the bushes.

She entered the code and came in. Little Monster hadn’t seen her for half a month and immediately started wagging his tail and whining, all eager to please.

The way he melted at the sight of her—rolling on his back, wiggling like a happy worm—should’ve annoyed me, but I couldn’t help but grin. He always was a sucker for her.

Tessa clipped on a leash and ran out with him.

My jaw dropped, but underneath the shock was a weird, grudging admiration. Only Tessa could break into my house and make it look like she was picking up dry cleaning.

The whole dog-stealing process was so smooth, I was both angry and amused.

I shook my head, half laughing, half wanting to scream. Only Tessa could pull something like this off—breaking and entering just for a dog. I bet she didn’t even think twice about the Ring camera.

I dragged Tessa out of my Messenger blacklist and FaceTimed her.

I hadn’t planned to unblock her anytime soon, but desperate times. My thumb hesitated over the screen. She picked up before the first ring even finished, like she’d been lying in wait.

She clearly expected me to call—her phone was right beside her.

As soon as the call came through, she picked up, but turned her head away in a classic bratty way, refusing to look at the camera.

She let out a theatrical sigh, then pouted, refusing to meet my gaze, eyes fixed on something off-screen like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

She threw it right back at me, a playful glint in her eye: “Didn’t you say whoever blinks first has to walk the dog for a month? So why are you calling me?”

Her tone was pure mischief—she knew exactly what she was doing. The faint reflection of her designer water bottle glinted on the coffee table beside her.

I glanced at Little Monster, happily munching on treats next to her.

He looked up, wagged his tail, then went right back to chewing. Traitor.

“Would I be calling you if you hadn’t come to my house to steal my dog?”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but I could hear the disbelief in it—this was classic Tessa, turning a felony into a game.

“Do you know what it means to break into someone’s home and steal their property?”

She just rolled her eyes, as if she’d borrowed the world’s rules for a minute and found them boring.

Tessa, the granddaughter beloved by Grandma Lane and spoiled since childhood, was as willful and arrogant as ever.

Her parents’ vintage records lined the walls behind her. Even over FaceTime, I could see her smirk as she lounged like she owned the city.

She lounged on the couch, petting Little Monster’s head with a big grin.

With every stroke, his eyelids drooped, betraying me entirely. Her sparkly red nails flashed in the lamplight—Little Monster looked like a king.

“I brought my baby home. What law did I break?”

She sounded half-joking, half-challenging, daring me to take it further. Somewhere in the background, I could hear the faint sound of jazz—her family’s signature party playlist.

I reminded her, “Little Monster was bought by me.”

I tried to sound reasonable, even as I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Remember who paid the adoption fee at the shelter?”

Tessa’s lips curled into a smile. “But I was the one who fed him bit by bit since he was two months old. If you want to see Little Monster, come home.”

She said it with that old, playful drawl that always got her what she wanted at every school fundraiser and Christmas gala. I could practically see her batting her lashes.

A flicker of memory flashed through my mind—Tessa sneaking extra bacon under the table, Little Monster instantly her biggest fan. I remembered the first time she charmed him, and me, at the same time.

After a whole day of recording, I was exhausted and not in the mood to argue.

I flopped down on the couch and let out a sigh, massaging the knot in my shoulder. “Let’s just cut to the chase.”

“I’ll give you a million. Little Monster is mine.”

She scoffed so loudly I almost dropped my phone. That, apparently, was the final straw.

At this, Tessa jumped up like a husky whose tail had been stepped on, instantly bristling: “Alex, you’re unbelievable.”

Her face twisted in outrage, as if I’d offered to sell the family silver. She stabbed the screen with a finger and the call cut out.

She angrily hung up the call.

The FaceTime screen faded to black. I stared at my own reflection, wondering if this was really my life.

A few minutes later, Tessa deliberately posted a photo on Instagram with Little Monster, captioned:

[Secretly took my baby from my boyfriend.]

Her story had one of those sparkly GIFs and a Taylor Swift lyric sticker—she never did anything halfway.

Her filter game was strong—warm glow, dog’s tongue out, both of them looking way too pleased with themselves.

I laughed. “Childish.”

A little part of me couldn’t help but smile. And somehow, even with my dog gone, I couldn’t shake the feeling she’d just stolen something bigger.