Two rival conwomen team up on a high-stakes heist at Miami’s most exclusive new island resort in this sultry, slow-burn thriller.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and the first chapter from The Long Con by Jenna Voris, which releases on June 2nd 2026.
Nothing brings Chloe Bly more joy than swindling rich people out of their money. Ever since her mother’s funeral, she’s used her hotel catering job to slip into people’s rooms, pawn their valuables, and use the haul to pay off her family’s medical debt. It’s a perfect system—until she finally gets caught.
But instead of turning her in, the eccentric billionaire hotel owner wants to hire Chloe for a job. The con is simple: infiltrate his rival’s new luxury hotel—pure opulence, from its lavish suites to its guests’ attire, accessible only via yacht—steal back his missing Hotel Excellence Award, and get away clean. At stake? Enough money to offer Chloe a way out of debt, out of Miami, and away from her problems forever.
The only problem is that Chloe won’t be working alone. Instead, she must team up with Harper Parisi, the disgustingly wealthy, frustratingly gorgeous conwoman who’s been crashing Chloe’s jobs all year. Suspicious about why Harper would risk it all for the billionaire’s scheme, Chloe doesn’t trust her—or the complicated feelings she sparks. With time running out and millions of dollars on the line, Chloe must get in and out without letting her emotions sabotage her chances of getting rich . . . or getting even.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
Chloe leans both elbows on the table, slicks on another layer of half-melted lipstick (L’Oréal Colour Riche Satin, shade: Worth It), and decides she’s really not asking the universe for that much. Tonight, it comes down to three things—for the humidity to remain at a somewhat reasonable level, for the straps of her thrifted ball gown to stop coming apart around her neck, and for the aging millionaire at her table to stay awake long enough for her to take all his money.
Three perfectly reasonable requests, in her opinion.
Chloe eyes her reflection in the table’s glittering centerpiece as she tucks the lipstick back down the front of her dress. Between the layers of wilted red tulle and the smooth wave of her normally unruly hair, she hardly recognizes herself in the decorative glass. The centerpiece does, however, give her a clear view of Logan standing against the ornate wallpaper behind her, a tray of overpriced hors d’oeuvres propped lazily in one hand. Perfect.
He’s on time, she’s ready to move, and her date for the evening is two glasses in to a wine-fueled monologue about software development. It’s now or never.
“Ready?”
Priya’s voice is barely audible over the chatter of the party and Chloe resists the urge to adjust the wireless earbud hidden behind her hair. She can’t respond here, but there’s a flicker of movement in the centerpiece as Logan steps away from the wall, tray passing effortlessly from hand to hand as he cuts his way through the dinner crowd.
“I was born ready, Priya, darling.”
Chloe resists the urge to roll her eyes. Logan’s always had a thing for dramatics, even in places like this. It’s something she learned the day she found him building an illegal air-conditioning unit on the floor of their freshman dorm, insisting she should dump his lifeless, overheated body in front of the dean’s office if he didn’t finish by noon. Now, she blames his day job and the Now You See Me films for feeding his amateur magician’s ego. Logan might have two different birthday parties booked tomorrow, but he’s here tonight and their plan begins the way they all do—with Chloe sitting across from a mark too rich for his own good, who, despite everything, is still completely oblivious to the cunning tilt of her lips.
This one was almost too easy to corner. James Montgomery Webber, seventy-two. A tech billionaire who recently tore up half a mile of Miami beachfront to build a sprawling new office hub. He currently employs half the city and he’s single-handedly funding half of Andrew Carlyle’s senate campaign, which is how he scored an invitation to tonight’s festivities. Right up front at an exclusive, donors-only dinner in one of the Carlyle hotels.
He wasn’t necessarily the target Chloe would have chosen, but there’s an art to these things she’s learned not to push.
“Sandwich?”
Logan leans over their table, tray extended in Webber’s direction. The warm scent of his cologne washes over them (Tom Ford, Ombré Leather), and Chloe risks a glance in his direction. Logan’s mouth is turned down in an expression of bored disinterest, but there’s a soft pink color painted across his already full lips. Because of course he found time to touch up. They both spent the last hour sweating outside, slipping their way through security checkpoints and locked doors, but god forbid Logan Amesfield show up to an event looking anything less than perfect.
Chloe grabs two tiny sandwiches off his tray and tries not to think about the frizzy curls currently sticking to the back of her neck. “Thanks.”
Webber barely looks up. Light from the chandelier flashes off his diamond-encrusted watch as he waves Logan away, like the mere presence of a waiter at their table is an inconvenience. Again, Chloe barely refrains from rolling her eyes. If she were working tonight or wearing her usual catering uniform, Webber wouldn’t spare her a glance either. He’d look right through her on his way to the bar, but tonight, she’s off the clock. She’s armed with four-inch heels and borrowed lipstick, and Logan’s interruption gives her the opening she needs.
“What were you saying?” Chloe leans in, knee casually brushing Webber’s under the table. “The app you’re developing. What’s it called?”
Webber blinks. The motion exaggerates the wrinkles around his eyes, but his forehead remains unnaturally still. “You mean Slique?”
“Yes! What a great name.”
It’s not. It’s ridiculous, but everything about James Montgomery Webber is ridiculous. Chloe’s not about to get picky now. She slides one finger up his arm, stopping just inside the crook of his elbow. “What does it do, again?”
She has him; Chloe feels it as Webber’s gaze slides from her face to the neckline of her gown before finally dropping to her hand. He clears his throat. “It’s a black car service. For luxury vehicles and on-call drivers.”
“Oh!” Chloe blinks. “So it’s like Uber?”
A hint of a smile touches the corner of Webber’s mouth. “Not exactly. Imagine you land in a new city. Your regular driver is back home, and you don’t know who to trust. What do you do?”
Chloe’s pretty sure 99 percent of the population will never actually encounter that problem, but she tilts her head anyway, feigning confusion. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly.” Webber grins, eyes still roaming unsubtly down the length of her body. “That’s where we come in.”
If there’s one thing rich people love more than being rich, Chloe thinks, it’s explaining in great, condescending detail exactly how rich they are. James Montgomery Webber has enough money to change the world yet here he is—drinking wine in the ballroom of a luxury hotel and breaking down the basics of capitalism to a girl fifty years his junior.
Some people don’t deserve nice things.
Some people deserve to have their watches stolen.
It’s only when Priya’s voice comes through the earbud again that Chloe realizes she’s instinctively tightening her grip, fingers curling into the fabric of Webber’s jacket as she imagines him jumping into a solid-gold Slique car, filled to the brim with glittering Scrooge McDuck coins.
“Corner by the balcony. Four o’clock.”
Priya is talking around a mouthful of food—probably the pad thai they all ordered for dinner—and Chloe’s stomach growls at the thought.
“Really?” Logan asks. “That corner looks pretty exposed.”
Chloe can practically hear Priya’s eye roll through the line. “Have I ever been wrong, Logan?”
“Many times.”
“About this?”
“Okay, no, but—”
“Then stop complaining. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Chloe releases her grip on Webber and shoots a quick glance toward the wall. The area Priya suggested is exposed, people wandering on and off the balcony on their way to the bar, but Priya has also never failed to find a security blind spot. Chloe pictures her in the back of her trusty orange Subaru, feet propped against the dashboard, romance novel in her lap as she tracks them through the party from several blocks away. If she says the corner is their best bet, Chloe will make it work. She gives herself three more seconds to plan a route and then, when Webber pauses for breath, she makes her move.
“Oh, I get it!” she exclaims, face lighting up. “Your app is like Charm.”
“No, it’s . . .” Webber breaks off, confusion threatening to crack the Botox-induced stillness of his forehead. “Wait, what’s Charm?”
“That new rideshare app?” Chloe pulls out her phone. “The one with the armored cars? That’s who you got the idea from, right?”
“I . . . no. We’re revolutionizing the future of luxury transportation. I’ve never heard of Charm.”
“Sure you have! They’re everywhere. I literally took a Charm car to dinner tonight. I’ll show you.”
Chloe opens her phone, screen deliberately shielded so Webber can’t see she’s tapping at nothing.
Priya snorts faintly in her ear. “I still can’t believe that works.”
“Right?” Logan mutters. “Dibs on gaslighting the next CEO. It’s not fair Chloe gets to have fun while I’m stuck in a cummerbund.”
“I think you look handsome.”
“Please be serious, Priya, I look like a killer whale.”
Chloe ignores them and stands, phone extended above her head like she’s trying to catch a signal. “There’s never any service at these things.” She heaves a defeated sigh. “Come on, let’s try by the window.”
She starts toward the balcony without looking back and, because she’s good at her job, because men like Webber truly believe the world is supposed to open for them, he follows.
Chloe weaves through tables of well-dressed donors and waitstaff, dodging photo ops and handshakes along the way. If Andrew Carlyle is really trying to fund a senate campaign, she thinks he can start by cutting his party budget. It’s a Wednesday night in late June and this entire event is already several degrees of too much. This Carlyle hotel is nearly twice as big as the location Chloe works at across town—sleek and shiny with enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that face out over a private beach and the ocean beyond. It’s all dripping chandeliers and ornate pillars and black-tie guests, a dazzling combination that might as well punch Chloe in the throat and call her an impostor for daring to con her way inside.
There’s the governor sitting at a table near the front with his equally bored-looking wife. There’s the weatherman from channel six, laughing animatedly as he downs another glass of champagne. There’s Katherine Windey, who can apparently take a break from overseeing her own hotel empire as long as it doesn’t require looking up from her phone. Rich people. Powerful people. People who seem completely unfazed by Andrew Carlyle’s enormous, spray-tanned face beaming down at them from every angle. Chloe shivers and averts her eyes from the campaign posters as she walks. It’s not like he’s actually watching her. Carlyle’s not even here yet, which is annoying considering this entire event is for him, but the image of his smooth, dark hair and too-white smile feels burned into her brain.
Chloe pauses next to the balcony with Webber at her side. She moves back and forth until Priya’s hum of approval echoes in her ear, then stands on her tiptoes, pretending to wave her phone overhead. “I’m telling you,” she says. “You have to see this app. I mean, what are the odds you both had the same—”
Something slams into them from behind. Chloe stumbles, heel snagging on the hem of her dress. She catches herself against the wall as wine sloshes over the rim of Webber’s glass and when she whips around, she finds Logan staring back at them, face a portrait of nervous concern.
“Oh my god!” He reaches for her with one hand, the other still clutching a tray of what looks like snail carcasses. “I’m so sorry, are you two okay?”
Chloe’s not, actually. She’s pretty sure part of her dress ripped. There’s a breeze tickling her ankle that definitely wasn’t there before, but she forces herself to ignore it as Logan reaches for Webber next.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, dabbing at Webber’s wine-stained tie. “Let me get you something for that, I’m—”
“Leave it.” Webber slams his half-empty glass onto Logan’s tray. “Just go. And get me another drink while you’re at it.”
Chloe can practically feel the annoyance rolling off him, frustration at the seemingly incompetent waitstaff mixed with the self-preserving instinct of not wanting to draw attention in a place like this. Logan seems to realize the same thing because he ducks his head, tray tucked against his chest like a makeshift shield, before turning and disappearing into the crowd.
Webber curses under his breath, wine still tracing scarlet trails over his rigidly pressed cuffs. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Tonight of all nights.”
After another precarious second, Chloe finally succeeds in freeing her shoe from the folds of her skirt. She tosses her hair over one shoulder with as much disgust as she can manage. “I know. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Webber waves a hand, and this time, Chloe thinks the dismissal applies to her, too. “I should go find somewhere to clean up.”
Chloe nods, doing her best to look disappointed as she focuses on his wine-splattered shoes. “Of course. Do you have a business card? Maybe we could stay in touch?”
One final trick. Something to fuel his ego when he leaves. Men like Webber, she’s learned, don’t have business cards. They walk through life with the expectation that everyone already knows exactly who they are and what they do, but the flattery works. Webber’s expression softens ever so slightly as he shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. Enjoy the party, though. It was nice to meet you.”
And then he’s gone, another indistinguishable suit in a crowd of dazzling wealth.
Chloe watches his retreating back for another second before tucking her phone back down the front of her dress. Easy, she thinks. It’s always easy with men like that. Even now, part of her almost wishes Webber would look down and notice that his watch is missing, the band of diamonds now stashed securely in Logan’s pocket. Maybe then they’d have a real challenge.
“Got it,” Logan mutters through the earpiece. “That was smooth.”
Chloe rolls her eyes and plucks a half-empty glass of wine off a nearby table. “You pushed me into a wall, but okay.”
“Technicalities. Who’s next?”
Who’s next? Because someone has to be. Because they didn’t drive all the way across town and crash Carlyle’s campaign dinner to stop here, not with an entire ballroom at their fingertips. Not with the rapidly growing mountain of unpaid bills on Chloe’s desk.
“What about Carlyle?” Chloe asks, eyes flicking from table to table. “Is he here yet?”
Logan’s snort is a gentle caress in her ear. “You want to go after your boss? I thought you liked your job.”
Chloe resists the urge to tell him that no one actually likes their job. She puts up with her own long hours in the hotel kitchens for the healthcare. She does it for the discounted employee housing and the stability of a steady paycheck, because she has other people to worry about, not because she likes it. The thought of her shift tomorrow is barely a whisper in the back of her mind. Right now, the thrill of success makes her feel unbreakable. She wants something risky. She wants something fun. She wants to sink her teeth into this entire gold-plated room and call it justice.
Priya is typing; Chloe can hear the click click click of her acrylics through the earbud. “Doesn’t look like Carlyle’s here yet,” she says. “Katherine Windey is at table seven, though, if you really want to rob a hotel CEO. Her properties are supposed to be better, anyway.”
Chloe tilts her head. “Didn’t she get arrested for embezzlement?”
“Everyone here has gotten arrested for embezzlement, Chloe. That’s, like, their whole thing.”
“Hold on.” Logan’s voice sharpens with interest. “Katherine’s here? Is she alone? What’s she wearing?”
“Oh my god, Logan,” Chloe mutters. “You can’t just ask what women are wearing.”
“That’s not . . . I’m asking about The Brooch.”
Chloe grins into her drink. Logan’s been after Katherine’s jeweled bumblebee brooch since the ribbon-cutting ceremony of her new island resort last year. He thinks taking it would be good for his “street cred.” Chloe thinks the idea of Logan having any sort of street cred is laughable. She normally wouldn’t mind getting her hands on something that valuable, but this particular piece is usually pinned directly beneath Katherine’s delicate, upturned nose. Even Logan and his sticky magician’s fingers haven’t found a way around that.
“No brooch,” Chloe decides. “Not tonight.”
Logan sighs mournfully. “It’s a collector’s item, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’d treat her right.”
Chloe is about to respond when a flurry of movement at the ballroom entrance catches her eye. Another group of donors arriving late, bottlenecking in the doors as they take in the grandeur of the ballroom.
“On it,” Priya says before Chloe can speak. “I’m pulling up a guest list.”
Chloe downs the rest of her drink, keeping one eye on the door as she slides along the back wall. Maybe tonight could still be interesting after all. One of the new arrivals has an enormous, jeweled brooch pinned to her lapel—not quite as big as Katherine’s but equally as obnoxious. Chloe is about to point it out when Logan sucks in a surprised breath. The sound is staticky in her ear, lighting some deeply buried survival instinct in the pit of her stomach.
Chloe’s steps falter. “What?”
“Trouble,” Logan says, voice already resigned to the worst. “Two o’clock. Blue dress.”
Chloe cranes her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of who, exactly, Logan is talking about. Trouble could mean a lot of things—hotel security, a boss, a vengeful ex. Once, in Priya’s case, it was all three. Chloe ducks behind another table, gaze flitting from one classically beautiful face to another. “Do you want to elaborate? I can’t—”
There, to her left. A flash of blue silk. Ice tips down Chloe’s spine and she stumbles to a halt in the center of the ballroom. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
A few scandalized faces turn her way, but Chloe is long past caring. She’s frozen to the marbled tile, glass still clutched in one hand, and it’s all she can do not to crush the delicate stem between her fingers.
“What?” Priya’s voice is frantic. “What’s going on?”
Chloe opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She’s stuck, watching the woman in blue break away from the crowd and head toward the bar. Eventually, it’s Logan who breaks the silence.
“Told you,” he says, wry humor coloring every word. “Trouble.”
THE LONG CON copyright © 2026 by Jenna Voris. Used by permission of The Dial Press, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. All rights reserved. Cannot be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
