I've always thought that people who show off their wealth are practically begging to lose it. Tonight would be no different.
The Ashford Annual Charity Gala was packed with Manhattan's richest—old-money families rubbing elbows with tech billionaires, all wearing outfits worth more than most people's cars. I adjusted my emerald dress in the bathroom mirror, making sure the neckline was just right—not too low to seem desperate, but low enough to be distracting.
"You've got this, Jane," I whispered to my reflection. "Just another rich guy who thinks with his wallet instead of his brain."
Five years as a con artist had taught me one thing: the richer they were, the easier they fell. Tonight's target was Jonathan Hoffman, a tech billionaire with a reputation for chasing women and a net worth of eight billion. The plan was simple: charm him, convince him to invest in my fake 'revolutionary' tech startup, and vanish with two million before anyone realized the company didn't exist.
I tucked a strand of dark hair behind my ear and practiced the smile that had emptied plenty of bank accounts before—not too wide, just enough to make him curious.
*Remember, you're Nicole Chen, MIT grad and Silicon Valley's newest genius. You're smart, mysterious, and just desperate enough for funding to ignore red flags.*
The bathroom door swung open as a woman in a sequined dress stumbled in, clearly drunk. Time to get back to work.
I glided through the ballroom, nodding at faces I'd memorized from Forbes and gossip pages. The chandelier above cast everything in a golden glow, like we were all in some modern fairy tale. But I knew better—these weren't princes and princesses. They were targets.
Jonathan stood near the bar, his expensive suit barely containing his ego—or his growing belly. Two models hung on his every word, but their bored expressions said they were just waiting for their paychecks.
*Perfect. He's showing off. Guys like him can't resist a new audience.*
I positioned myself at the bar, ordering a mineral water with lime that looked like a gin and tonic. Jonathan's eyes drifted my way—right on schedule—taking in the emerald dress that had cost me a fortune but would pay for itself ten times over tonight.
"Macallan 25, neat," Jonathan told the bartender before turning to me. "And whatever the lady's having."
I gave him my practiced smile. "I'm fine, but thanks."
His eyebrows lifted slightly. A woman turning down his money? That was new for him.
"We haven't met," he said, holding out his hand. "Jonathan Hoffman."
"I know who you are, Mr. Hoffman. Your work on quantum encryption changed the game." I shook his hand briefly. "Nicole Chen."
His eyes lit up—he recognized the name I'd spent months planting in tech blogs and fake LinkedIn endorsements.
"The Nicole Chen? From QuantumShield?" He dismissed the models with a wave. "I read about your breakthrough last month. Impressive."
*Hook, line, and sinker.*
"You're too kind. We're still early-stage, but the results are promising." I lowered my voice. "Between us, we're closing our Series A next month. Already oversubscribed."
The lie came easily. There was no QuantumShield, no breakthrough, no Series A. Just fake articles, a sleek website, and enough tech jargon to sound real.
"Early stage is where the real money's made," Jonathan said, stepping closer. His cologne was expensive but overpowering, just like everything else about him. "Maybe we should talk somewhere quieter."
I checked my watch. "I've got a dinner meeting in an hour, but I can spare twenty minutes."
We headed to the balcony—predictable, but effective. The New York skyline glittered below us like scattered stars, the perfect backdrop for taking a fool's money.
"Your approach to quantum key distribution is interesting," Jonathan said, leaning on the railing. "Using biological algorithms instead of traditional cryptography."
I hid my surprise. He'd actually done his homework—or paid someone to. No matter. I was ready.
"Nature solved encryption billions of years ago," I said smoothly. "We're just borrowing what already works. The human genome, coral polyps, even slime molds—they all have patterns we can use for data security."
It was complete nonsense, but delivered with enough confidence to sound real. Jonathan nodded, completely sold.
*Always mix truth with lies. Makes the lie harder to spot.*
"What's your valuation?" he asked, getting to the point.
"Twenty million pre-money. But like I said, we're almost closed on this round." I turned to leave. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Hoffman."
He grabbed my arm. "Wait. I want in."
His grip lingered a second too long, fingers pressing into my skin like he owned me. I fought the urge to pull away. This was business.
"Our minimum is two million. And we're oversubscribed." I gave him an apologetic smile. "Maybe next round?"
"Two million's nothing." He pulled out his phone. "I can wire it tonight."
*Yes. Almost there.*
"That's generous, but paperwork takes time. Due diligence, you know."
He laughed. "Due diligence is for people who can't afford to lose. For two million, I'll take the risk."
I pretended to think while mentally calculating how fast I could move the money offshore.
"Well, if you're serious," I said, pulling out my phone, "I can have my CFO send the wire instructions now."
This was it—the moment of truth. If he agreed, the money would be mine by morning, and I'd be on a plane to a country with no extradition by afternoon.
Jonathan typed on his phone. "Account details?"
I recited the Cayman Islands account number I'd memorized, watching as he entered it.
"Done," he said, showing me the confirmation screen. "Looking forward to making billions together, Ms. Chen."
My heart raced. It was too easy. Jonathan Hoffman, tech genius, had just sent two million dollars to a fake company based on nothing but a few lies and my emerald dress.
"I should head back inside," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline. "People will talk if we're gone too long."
Jonathan smirked. "Let them talk. I just invested in the future."
*No, you just invested in my early retirement.*
We returned to the ballroom as the hotel manager announced the charity auction. Perfect timing—the transfer would go through before anyone asked questions.
I needed to stay another thirty minutes to avoid suspicion, then leave. By tomorrow, Jonathan would realize Nicole Chen and QuantumShield had disappeared—along with his two million.
"Excuse me," I said to Jonathan. "Powder room."
He nodded, already eyeing another woman.
I crossed the ballroom, feeling lighter than air. This was my biggest score yet—enough to disappear forever. No more cons, no more lies. Just me and a beach far away.
The massive chandelier sparkled above, its light bouncing off diamonds and designer dresses. I was almost at the exit when I heard a strange creak from above.
I looked up just as people started screaming.
The chandelier—all two tons of crystal and metal—had broken loose and was falling right toward me.
There was no time to move.
*Are you kidding me? Now?*
The last thing I saw was a shower of crystal shards, beautiful and deadly, rushing down at me.
Then—darkness.
---
Pain. That was my first thought. Not the sharp pain of being crushed, but a dull ache in every part of my body.
*I'm alive. Somehow.*
I tried to open my eyes, but even that hurt. The air smelled wrong—no hospital disinfectant, just smoke, sweat, and something earthy.
"She's waking up! Mary, get some water!"
The voice was unfamiliar—a woman, middle-aged, with an old-fashioned accent.
I forced my eyes open and immediately regretted it. The light was dim, but it still felt like needles in my eyes. When my vision cleared, I saw a wooden ceiling—rough beams darkened by smoke. Not a hospital.
"There you are, child. You had us worried sick."
I turned my head—slowly, painfully—toward the voice. A woman with a weathered face and gray-streaked hair under a cloth cap looked down at me. Her clothes looked straight out of a history book—homespun dress, apron, everything.
*What kind of hospital is this? Some weird themed place?*
"Where am I?" My voice was a croak.
"Home, of course. Where else would you be after such a fever? Three days you've been burning up. We thought we'd lose you like your father last winter."
None of this made sense. Father? This woman wasn't my mother. My mom was a regular office worker in Chicago, and we hadn't spoken in years. And why was she talking like she was from the 1500s?
I tried to sit up and realized something else was wrong. My body felt… different. Smaller. Weaker. I looked down at my hands—except they weren't mine. These were the hands of a young girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen, rough with calluses and dirt under the nails.
"What—?" I started, but another woman entered, carrying a wooden cup.
"Here's the water, mom. How's Dianella?"
Dianella? My name wasn't Dianella. It was Jane. Jane Wright.
"Mirror," I managed to say. "Please, I need a mirror."
The women exchanged worried looks.
"Don't fret about your looks, child. The fever's gone, that's what matters."
"Please," I insisted, trying not to panic.
The younger woman—Mary—shrugged and pulled out a small polished metal mirror.
With shaky hands, I held it up.
A stranger stared back—a young girl with a pointed chin, big blue eyes, and wavy brown hair. Not my face. Not my body.
"The year," I whispered, a terrible thought forming. "What year is it?"
The older woman frowned, touching my forehead. "Still feverish, I see. It's the Year 1583, as you well know. Now drink your water and rest. The blacksmith's boy saved you an apple for when you're better."
The cup slipped from my fingers, water spilling on the rough blanket.
1583. Impossible.
*This can't be happening. I was at the Ashford Gala. In New York. In 2025.*
But as I looked around—the tiny room, the straw mattress, the smoke-stained ceiling, the women in old-fashioned clothes—a horrifying truth hit me.
The chandelier hadn't just knocked me out.
It had sent me into another world, another time, another body.
I, Jane Wright, a con artist, was now Dianella, a peasant girl in the Renaissance.
And I had no idea how to get back.