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I CE GLITTERS LIKE DIAMONDS OUTSIDE MY WINDOW.

I watch the snowcapped mountains, the frozen lakes, the white sky, from the window seat of the nicest luxury train in Europe. We’re slicing through the Swiss mountains, fifty-four minutes from our destination.

The train was my idea. The forty-kilometer-per-hour “scenic” pace was not. I would have opted for the fastest possible route, obviously. Opposite me, Jackson Roese—my boyfriend, selector of our snowy route—gazes from the window, enchanted.

It’ll be romantic! he insisted while I organized our itinerary in my room two months ago.

We’re not going to Switzerland for the romance , I reminded him.

Jackson had grinned.

Surely a mastermind like you can fit a little romance into the plan , he’d said.

Unfair. Entirely unfair. Insinuating my qualifications were lacking if they could not fit some swoon into our Swiss excursion? Unjust. I would have called him on his underhanded negotiating if underhanded negotiating wasn’t my own specialty.

Whether it was Jackson’s pointed persuasion, or the fact he was wearing the white cable-knit sweater he knows makes him look like a high-school James Bond, or just the fact that I notoriously have a weakness for letting Jackson Roese’s temptations into my heart, I relented.

With the winter wonderland passing us outside, I’m glad I did. It’s just the effect Jackson has on me. No matter how unpragmatic, I welcome my weakness for him.

How could I ever feel otherwise? Jackson Roese has loved me no matter where I once lived or live now, no matter who my father is, no matter how shattered he found the pitiful new girl he embraced in the halls of East Coventry High.

He loved me despite the vengeance he found in the heart I’d entrusted to him. Despite how insecurity and my past set my suspicions on him.

He loved me even though I spent the past year planning multiple thefts of millions of dollars from my own family.

Millions are nothing. The heart of the guy next to me is the greatest score I’ve ever stolen.

We’re in the main car, which, I have to say, is lovely—shining wood panels and seats of velvety dark green. I idly catalog the passengers around us while Jackson watches the scenery.

He pulls his eyes from the large windows to me, finding me looking at him. I smile, unembarrassed. He blushes delightfully.

It’s sweet. Swiss-chocolate sweet. Wedding-cake sweet. Jackson sweet.

He nudges my foot with the heavy sole of his Timberland. “Olivia. Look,” he presses playfully, nodding to the window. “You’re not admiring the view. You should get your money’s worth.”

Once more, I find myself grinning. Jackson Roese steals grins out of me like I steal fortunes. My money’s worth. Jackson’s reminder is not misplaced. The luxury train wasn’t cheap.

Nothing I couldn’t afford, though. Heisting a fortune from your own father at his wedding does make a few things easier. Easier like no more nervous chest pains. Easier like knowing I have enough for my entire college tuition.

Easier like waking up in the house my mom bought with the heist money. The farmhouse-style home in Coventry offers her enough natural light to set up her easel in the living room. Even more important, I know she’s spent her last night on the interstate driving exhaustedly between multiple jobs.

Vengeance was sweet. Wedding-cake sweet.

But my mom’s happiness? Priceless. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness either had none or way too much.

Even with our living expenses covered, my last heist left us enough to enjoy some liberties on this Switzerland trip, like the train carriage and a weeklong stay for my mom in Bern.

The spa I’d booked as her Christmas gift is supposedly one of the world’s finest, or so said the lengthy recommendations message I’d gotten from Tom, replete with several listicles.

I don’t let my eyes leave Jackson. “I’m enjoying the view plenty,” I reply, my voice low with promise.

He doesn’t blush this time. It’s a shame.

“You’re very charming when you’re nervous,” he remarks. His eyes sparkle like the snowbanks, except way more distracting.

Not just distracting. Dazzling.

“I’m sure I am, but I’m not nervous,” I reply.

Jackson examines me. He props his foot up on his knee, leg crooked, looking like he owns this train. His curl of brown hair is defiantly boyish no matter his expression, which right now has softened into inquisitive concern.

“You’re not? Really? I know you have to be the fearless leader when everyone gets here, but I’m different,” he says gently. “You can be real with me.”

“I’m not nervous,” I reply. “I feel… great, actually. Better than I have in months.”

It’s not just the truth. It’s the understatement of the year. The tip of the iceberg, if I dare permit the fittingly frosty metaphor.

While I love Jackson and I’m immeasurably happy my mom is doing well, ordinary life has left me unsettled since the wedding heist. With “The Plan” more or less executed, I’d returned to East Coventry High.

I’d gone to class. I’d learned French and Physics in gray classrooms with humming fluorescents.

I’d written personal statements. I’d taken the SAT.

Nothing—not one moment—felt like seeing the look in my father’s eyes when he realized I’d claimed his empire for my own.

Did my own heist steal something from me? Normalcy? Contentment with the ordinary?

Or did it give me something? Purpose. Hunger. The pursuit of legacy.

I don’t know yet.

I just know it’s made the past few months quietly exasperating.

Only the prospect of this trip—and the plan I am about to set in motion—kept me from screaming in the middle of college fairs and timed writings.

I’ve counted down the days to this one, inscribed the date with imaginary heavy lettering in the calendar of my heart. Olivia’s second heist starts now.

“How about you? Nervous?” I return Jackson’s question to him.

His smirk reminds me that Jackson Roese isn’t just sweet. “Me? Nervous? You know me better than that, new girl.”

He winks. Combined with the smirk, it’s mercenary. Ruthless.

I hold his diamond gaze, sharp and precious. “Once we got on this train, our vacation ended,” I remind him. “We’re officially on the job. You can call me King now,” I say, invoking my heist code name.

With Switzerland’s icy splendor surrounding us, Jackson’s eyes sparkle. In his seat opposite mine in the main compartment, he leans forward, elbows rested on his knees, hands folded in front of him. Close enough to kiss.

“King,” he repeats.

I restrain myself from pulling him to me—barely. Straightening my spine, I hide the shallowness in my lungs.

“I can work with that,” he murmurs.

Into our midst comes the gentle beep of my watch alarm.

I set it hours ago, having meticulously calculated our speed and distance to determine the precise middle of the longest stretch of our frozen passage between stations. Meticulously calculated everything, I should say, except the heated pounding in my chest.

Nevertheless, it’s time. My heart will wait. My heist won’t.

I lean in closer to Jackson—using the movement to eye the rest of the train compartment. “You don’t mind being my pawn, do you, Jackson?” I whisper in his ear.

He exhales. His hand clenches on the armrest. I know exactly what desire looks like on him, and I indulge in his reaction. His nearness, combined with the first step of the plan commencing, has my heart rate hurtling, eagerness clenching in my stomach.

“Never knew this did it for me,” he remarks, his voice low. “I have a feeling I’m going to learn a lot about myself this week.”

Past him, my gaze finds exactly who I’m looking for. Our mark.

The first obstacle to our operation needs to be eliminated. The unwelcome spy my father sent to follow us everywhere.

I’ve noticed him shadowing us nearly since we landed in Switzerland, which gave me a couple days to design the plan we’re initiating now—including putting everyone in position.

I press a kiss to Jackson’s neck. Glancing past our mark, deeper into the train compartment, I find Thomas Pham.

In head-to-toe couture, combined with his perfect haircut and his sharply handsome features, Tom looks right off the runway. The compartment’s lights shine off the polish of his leather shoes.

Our gazes lock for one moment. He registers my wordless cue, and then I drag my eyes from his, ignoring whatever fraught shadow I find in them.

I return to Jackson, finally kissing him deeply. He trembles beneath me—not, I know, just from our proximity.

I withdraw, steeling myself with one shaky exhale.

“Your lessons,” I say, “start now.”