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J ACKSON WAITS FOR ME IN THE HALLWAY.

When I step out of my room, his eyes light up. His expression warms me despite the chill in the cold corridor. Every worry—every consideration, every logistic, every machination in my head on my way to my first Volenvell family dinner since I was seven years old—disappears.

Not for long, but the moment means everything.

“You look beautiful,” he says earnestly.

His inviolable Jacksonness, present once more. He’s so quick with his compliments, I notice. So without ulterior motives.

I soften despite the overwhelming nerves that have stolen into me. Jackson doesn’t know it’s precisely the compliment I needed. In my father’s family, every imperfection is cataloged. Every decision is evaluated, especially in matters of style, custom, and presence.

I’m outfitted to impress and intimidate. My ivory dress with three-quarter sleeves hugs my body with perfect tailoring. It cost a thousand dollars, and it feels like a costume, like I’m playing the part of the Olivia who belongs here.

The only piece of my ensemble that feels like me is the diamond necklace my grandfather willed me.

I may have stolen my wealth, but Jackson stole this fragment of my past for me during the wedding heist. The gem’s glittering facets feel like the pieces of me coming together—daughter, heiress, girlfriend, mastermind—in one priceless prism.

“Thanks,” I say to Jackson. “You look so handsome.”

He does. Listen to me. Honesty from the princess of liars. He’s wearing the dark-gray wool blazer I got him for Christmas over gray pants and the black crew-neck sweater he’s had forever. His hair curls impeccably.

He looks like himself, and not. The new Jackson, the old Jackson. The grown-up, Volenvell Jackson, and the one I know.

His hand in mine, we head down the hallway in the opposite direction from how we arrived here. Instead of reentering the narrow stairs returning to the foyer, we continue the other way.

I didn’t need the castle map provided in my room, having memorized the layout months ago. My every waking non-homework moment has gone into figuring out how to extract millions in gold and jewels from these hallways—they’re inscribed in my head like the swoops of my own signature.

We’re nearing the main stairs now. “Ready to meet my family?” I ask Jackson.

He offers me half a smile. I know he hears the nervousness under my poorly feigned nonchalance.

“You know, there are a lot of intimidating parts about having you as a girlfriend,” he says. “But considering you have a horrible relationship with almost every single member of your family, I’m not really worried about impressing them.”

I raise an eyebrow. “A lot of intimidating parts?”

The main stairs emerge from the doorway in front of us.

They’re more regal, more impressive, than the entrance stairs.

Way more impressive. The polished stone spans half the width of the two-story room we’ve entered.

On the opposite side is another staircase, mirroring ours but leading to the primary residence of my grandmother.

The sets of stairs cross on their paths to the ground floor.

We descend. Deeper into the fortress.

Jackson leans closer on the steps. “I’ll show which of your parts intimidate me if you sneak into my room tonight,” he whispers slyly in my ear.

Heat rushes through me, sweeping the mountainous cold from my skin. Logically, it is to my benefit to establish the pattern of sneaking out of my room to visit my boyfriend. It’s the perfect alibi in the event of Mia’s inevitable interest in my nocturnal pursuits.

I also just really want to.

“Jackson Roese,” I say, playful. “You used to be such a good boy.”

We reach the foot of the stairs, passing several guests making their way down. The dining room doorway waits on our left. “Maybe you’re corrupting me,” Jackson jokes.

His smile is wicked, and I know he’s just flirting. Nevertheless, his words jolt panic into me. I don’t want Jackson to change. I may not be a good person, but Jackson is. I love that about him. I love him . As he is.

Loving a boy like him may be the one remaining redeeming piece of me—the goodness my vengefulness hasn’t yet destroyed. It’s selfish to want to hold on to that shard of goodness—I know it is.…

Well, who could be surprised by Olivia Owens being selfish? Not me.

Knowing I can’t pull off flirtatious humor over the pounding in my heart, I use the distraction of entering the dining room to avoid replying.

We’re far from the first ones here. I would guess most of Volenvell’s guests for the week have assembled in the majestic hall.

The room is grand without opulence or obnoxiousness.

The doorframes and half-wall panels are wood, warm amber in defiance of the unforgiving winter outside.

Fires roar in the hearths on opposite walls.

The dining table runs down the heart of the long, rectangular room.

No one sits. Not yet.

I evaluate the congregations of family, huddled against a cold having nothing to do with the weather.

Elwood Owens. My father’s sister and youngest sibling.

“Runs” her own gallery in Bern, which means visiting once every month while dedicating the rest of her productive hours to deeply mediocre paintings of her own.

The dilettante. I don’t underestimate her.

People with everything to prove would do anything to prove it.

Hammond Owens. The middle sibling. Father to Mia and Finn. Distinguished in his family for having established his own career, graduating from university into investment banking in Zurich. It could have made him proud and independent. Instead, the Hammond I remember is spiteful, shrewd, and wary.

They’ve posted up next to the fireplace in front of what I know is the closed-off ballroom, heads bent together, voices low in conspiracy. They don’t know my dad has been stealing from them for years, and I don’t intend to tell them. The information could prove useful, though.

Others fill out the rest of the room. Just as I memorized my father’s gauche wedding guests, I’ve committed to recall even the farthest-flung living Owens relatives.

Hugo Berndt. My father’s cousin. Lawyer in The Hague. The type to come here to enjoy the wine and the linens while convincing himself he disdains the wealth.

Vera Chassagne. University mathematics professor. In my honest opinion, looks more intimidated here than someone who has won the Fields Medal should.

Raphael Krause. Second cousin of my father’s. Several charges of driving while intoxicated over the past few years. Nothing family money couldn’t resolve.

I don’t focus on them. No, I’m entering the room and the week with one conviction—my greatest threats will come from the family closest to me. They’re the other players in this frozen game. Hammond. Elwood. Mia. Finn.

Leonie.

Finn chats with first and second cousins I recognize from my father’s wedding. More comfortingly, my crew is where I need them. With Mia is Tom, whose cream turtleneck and slacks emanate leisurely luxury. Drink in hand, he looks characteristically comfortable.

Grace has accrued a circle of my other cousins, her natural cool drawing them like gravity.

Elwood’s four children run from Sofia, a London School of Economics first-year, to cheerful secondary schoolers Leon and Elisabeth, and finally to Leonie’s youngest grandchild, ten-year-old Henrik.

He watches Grace in instant idol worship.

It makes me smile, although not without sadness. Henrik reminds me of my younger self.

Of course, there’s one family member who won’t be appearing tonight. I know with 100-percent certainty my father—my grandmother’s exiled eldest son—was not invited to this family reunion. Convenient for me, honestly. I certainly don’t miss him.

Jackson, however, has noticed the other conspicuous absence. “Is your grandmother here?” he inquires in innocent confusion, quite reasonable for someone attending the party of the person presently not, well, present.

I shake my head in confirmation. The development prickles my neck uncomfortably. One more variable cut into the ice of the frosty social scene in here.

“Should we talk to anyone?” Jackson asks.

My eyes sweeping the room, I strategize. “Not yet,” I decide. “Let’s look like outsiders. Just you and me.”

Jackson’s eyes connect with mine.

“Just you and me,” he repeats. “My favorite.”

I smile. He’s managed to warm the room like no fireplace could. “Is it selfish to want you to myself?”

“Of course it is.” Jackson returns my grin. “I like you selfish, though.”

After forty-five minutes of prelude, house servers politely summon us to sit. My grandmother still does not appear. I notice Otto flit into the room, ensure everything is functioning precisely, and depart for other household needs—not without meeting my eyes.

When everyone moves to the table, I find nameplates on the place settings. Of course. Nothing without management, manipulation, design.

Dutifully, we find ours. I’m unsurprised to discover our position on one remote end of the table. A position of dishonor, no doubt, near distant in-laws.

Seated beside me is one such remote in-law.

Ernest Hensson. Even my rigorously researched recollection admittedly falters a little on him.

Hensson… heads the compliance department for Denmark’s largest shipping company.

Having no interest in Danish shipping, I found his flash card one of the hardest to remember.

I wouldn’t introduce ourselves or make conversation with him now—except for one unexpected detail I notice when he reaches for his wine.

On his wrists glint dagger cuff links just like Mia’s.

Just like my grandfather’s, once. Intriguing is an understatement— nonsensical is more like it. Hensson is no one. Far from the family. What’s he doing wearing cuff links I was told were heirlooms?

I decide to find out.

Reaching for my own glass, I brush Hensson’s sleeve inconspicuously. It’s easy to pretend my notice of the daggers is incidental. “Wow,” I say, fake-friendly. “My grandfather had a pair of cuff links just like those!”

Jackson says nothing, intuiting my chattiness with Ernest here is not innocent. The pallid, square-jawed man eyes me, something nervous in him despite his unhidden disinterest in me. “Who are you?” he asks.

“Dash’s daughter,” I gush, as if this makes me the princess of the castle. Which… I guess it kind of does. Or would’ve, had one little estrangement not gotten in the way.

The response interests Ernest. “Of course.” He sits up, sparing me a glance now. “Olive, yes?”

“Olivia,” I correct without annoyance. Nodding to the cuff links, I smile. “Were you close with Andrew?”

Hensson frowns. The mention of my grandfather’s name has unsettled him. “We ran in the same circles,” he replies.

I can’t help narrowing my eyes. It’s a nonanswer, cryptic and evasive. Hensson knows it. He sets down his wine, pretending to ignore my stare.

“I remember Grandpa wearing them,” I press him, reminding Ernest of my relationship with the head of the family. “A family crest, right? How old is it?”

Ernest studies me now.

He says nothing. His expression reminds me of Mia’s when I grasped her bracelet.

Finally, he smiles politely.

“Please excuse me, Olivia,” he says, without explanation. Stiffly, he rises from his seat, ending the conversation, and heads for the door.

I watch his hasty retreat. Not a family crest, then. If I’d given him the correct answer, he would have used it. No, the cuff links… mean something. Something else. Something Ernest Hensson didn’t want to disclose.

I’m working the question over when dinner emerges. The food is French with modern flourishes, starting with the amuse-bouche, spoonfuls of lobster mousseline with dollops of caviar.

With every course, geometrically plated cutlets of seafood and seared meat with elegant vegetable garnishes proceeding in precise sequence, I watch the empty head seat.

My grandmother’s absence preoccupies me more with every passing second and plat de viande .

I knew she’d grown reclusive, hardly leaving her castle in the past decade, but I didn’t think she’d become antisocial.

The Leonie of my childhood was present at every family gathering. Watching, advising. Manipulating.

Something has changed.

Conversation surrounds us. No one else, I notice, appears ill at ease with the hostess not joining us.

Instead, I hear the chatter change from polite to poisonous.

Do you think she’ll come at all? murmurs Elena Tyrwhitt—private school vice headmistress, unsmiling in every photo I found—to Hugo Berndt.

I hope not , he returns. Skipping her own party would be the first kind thing Leonie Owens has done for anyone in a decade.

Why do you think she invited us all if she doesn’t even want to join us? Charlotte Carr inquires of her husband. I strain to listen. She’s never wanted to spend time with us , Joseph replies. I checked our room for functioning fire alarms when we arrived. Who knows what her agenda is?

Charlotte chuckles, her humor forced. She would never risk destroying this place , she ventures.

You’re right , her husband concurs. If she’s invited us here for mass murder, I would suspect the wine first.

He laughs loudly at his own line. I don’t find it funny.

Not with Hugo and Elena’s conversation changing nearer to me. Do you think she really put out a hit on someone once?

Hugo grimaces. My mother used to insist on it. She said Leonie’s first boyfriend—a man everyone was relieved she never married—disappeared after their relationship.

Poisonings, paid executions, and faulty fire alarms. And all before dessert.

Not everyone is so morbidly distracted—I notice Tom make Mia laugh, her cheeks reddening. Good work, Knight.

Until finally, while I’m frustratedly picking at my cheese course, it happens.

The room hushes. Eyes land on the stairs.

No gossip or speculation could compare to the intimidation of the new entrant in person. Looking ten years older than in the photograph she sent me, Leonie Owens enters the dining room. She wears a black dress, her posture perfect, her hair dyed the dark brown I remember. She looks powerful.

The empress of Volenvell, joining us at last.