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Prologue

Harlan

Iwalk into my brother Graysen’s opulent living room at the Vance Bayshore resort with a familiar lump in my throat. It tastes like dread, and sticks like something sharp that I can never quite swallow.

The sun is high and bright through the towering windows, and my feet are hot in my shiny black shoes. I truly detest summer. Give me smothering low-cloud ceilings and pissing rain any day. Bad weather keeps people in their boxes and the hell away from me.

“Where the fuck is Jamie?” I grumble, tearing off my jacket.

Graysen, my oldest brother, stands at the wall of windows behind his desk, gazing out over the water of Coal Harbour. He’s dressed as always in a three-piece suit, somber gray, not one dark hair out of place. “Harlan,” he greets me with a frown. “Always a pleasure.”

I grunt a hello. Our brother Damian smirks as I join my twin sister, Savannah, at the bar cart. She pokes me with her elbow in greeting as I start fixing myself a Manhattan.

“I see you’re in a black mood,” Graysen says as I add a dash of bitters to my drink. He’s the only one of us without a drink in hand. He works here, lives here, does most everything here—instead of spending time with his fiancée. I assume he fucks his secretary here, too, but maybe that’s because I find it rather soothing to underestimate people. It’s a far better bet than hoping they’ll surprise me.

“When is Harlan not in a black mood?” Damian quips.

I ignore them all as I cross the room to my favorite chair, pausing only to raise my glass to the wedding portrait of our grandparents over the fireplace. It’s still there, the sharp thing in my throat. And now comes the burning in my esophagus, the acid reflux that kicks up every time I see Granddad’s face.

Stoddard Vance, our billionaire grandfather, died only a few months ago.Stoddy. I was the only one of his grandkids who called him that. My granddad was the last soft spot I had left.

I pop open the top button of my shirt, trying to clear my throat of that sharp thing as I park myself in the big wingback chair I used to sit in while Granddad and I talked finances over drinks. I’d love to tear off my shoes, but that might reveal how uncomfortable I am, and I can feel my brothers watching me.

“Anything in particular piss you off today?” Damian inquires. He lounges on the sofa across from me in a stylish graphite-gray suit, suave as hell, but taking himself way less seriously than the rest of us.

“Can’t stand that bodyguard of yours, Savi,” I deflect. I don’t need anyone digging into my private business, and that includes my mood. “Haven’t we retired him yet?”

Savannah looks affronted and pauses in her stroll across the room, drink in hand. “What’s your problem with Peter? You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“The man’s losing his hearing. What kind of bodyguard doesn’t even hear me approaching in time to open a door? I could’ve mugged him if I wanted to.”

She scoffs. “It’s not my bodyguard’s job to open doors for you.”

“Don’t take it personally, Savannah.” Jameson saunters into the room, last and borderline late, like the prince he truly thinks he is; impeccable designer suit, wavy sun-kissed hair, magazine cover perfect. “You know Harlan hates everyone.”

“Present company included,” I mutter.

Jamie just smiles at me. He takes a seat next to Damian, not bothering with a drink. He’s been in such a good mood lately, it’s kind of revolting.

“Anyway, this isn’t an employee review,” Savi says crisply, annoyed with me, as she sits down. “We’re here to play the game.” She raises her glass to Jamie, and Damian follows suit. “As we all know, we have reason to celebrate. Jameson completed his challenge.”

“How thoughtful of him to show up on time, then,” I remark.

Savi frowns and sips her drink.

“Well played, Jameson.” Damian shakes Jamie’s hand in congratulations, eyes twinkling. “We all knew you could do it.” We knew no such thing. But I genuinely think Damian’s enjoying this bullshit. He always has loved a game, especially one he thinks he can win. Just like Granddad. “One down, four more to go.”

“Yup,” Jamie says. “Time to draw a new name from the box.”

Granddad’s cigar box sits on the coffee table between us. I’m trying to ignore it. But the straight edges of the box don’t line up perfectly parallel to the edges of the table, and I’ve been itching to straighten it since I sat down.

We’re here to play the next round of the game that we’ve been forced to play according to our granddad’s will. We eachneed to complete a personal challenge, devised in secret by our siblings, that will “test what we’re made of,” in order to earn our inheritances, one by one. Today, the name of the next player in the game and their challenge will be drawn randomly from the box.

The stakes of the game are clear: win—or lose everything.

And I’m dreading my turn to play, more than I’d ever admit to any of them.

Because I can’t even be sure that my siblings don’t actuallywantme to lose this game.