Page 13

I NSTANTLY, I KNOW WHY SHE’S HOURS LATE. S HE’S NOT FRAIL OR SHY.

Leonie is making an entrance.

I recognize the stratagem from my father, who would deploy it on meetings and family dinners alike.

How many nights did Dash sweep in when my mom and I were nearly finished?

How many investor discussions, Quinn uncomfortably promising Dash was “on his way, five minutes out,” while I did homework in the dining room nearby?

It says, You run on my schedule . The party doesn’t start until the eldest Owens walks in. The next family rule for my ignominious list.

Everyone is silent as Leonie walks to her seat. When she reaches her chair, she doesn’t sit. Instead, she stands over it, her hands resting on the high back.

She surveys her guests. Her captives . When her eyes fall on me, I feel my breath catch, fear clenching my spine.

Come on, Olivia. She’s seventy years old, and you’re going to steal her fortune , I counsel myself.

The whispering voice in my head won’t relent. Seventy years old with the wealth of royal war chests , it reminds me.

The look my grandmother gives me is no different from the regard every other relative receives. Quick, impassive. She’s not intimidating me. She doesn’t care to.

“How it warms my heart to see so many loved ones at my table,” she finally says. Her voice is frozen steel, her diction not exactly warmhearted . She speaks English without any trace of an accent. “I thank you all for traveling to my home to celebrate my seventieth year.”

Everyone waits. Nothing in Leonie’s demeanor says the welcome was idle. Or finished.

Duly, she elaborates. “I have news,” she says, “that I expect will please and frustrate each and every one of you in equal measure.”

Now forks are set down. No one dares interrupt. Leonie pauses, lips pinched.

“This birthday will be my last. I’m dying,” she declares.

Gasps rise from the room.

I narrow my eyes, heart starting to pound.

“Please do not pretend to be saddened,” Leonie preempts my family. “It’s the moment each of you has been waiting for, here at last.” She places one hand on her chest, grandly theatrical.

“Mother, no one wants this,” Hammond interrupts over the concerned murmurs starting to spread from wide-eyed guests. “Whatever it is, we will get you the best doctors, medical experts—”

“I’m not interested.” Leonie waves her hand, dismissing him.

“And neither are you. I planned this week as a final hurrah, and as a chance to do good for my loved ones in my last days. I’ve decided, for my final birthday”—she smiles with dark delight—“I will be the one to give the gifts. To my dear family, who have made my life worthwhile.”

The fire prickles my skin unpleasantly. I know what Leonie’s referring to. Everyone does. The will. Who in the family will receive what portions of my grandmother’s wealth. Carving the fortune like the chef portioned out the chateaubriand for the main course.

“As many of you know, I have kept much of my fortune in gold and precious gems for a number of reasons. I admit, I did not foresee this being one of them,” Leonie says.

She taps her fingers on the chair, the fire catching in her eyes.

“Fortune, I have learned, is nothing but a curse on this family. It has robbed me of my marriage, my firstborn son.”

The mention of Dash is enough to distract me from my panic. Her fortune robbed her of him? I’ve never known the cause of my father’s falling-out with his mother and her European dynasty. When it happened, I was young and grieving my grandfather.

In the years since, I’ve suspected the split involved money, although I’ve never known or inquired how. Regardless, it’s dark of my grandmother to list it like a regret she can’t change when she very much could have invited said firstborn son to what I guess is the Leonie Owens Farewell Tour.

Hammond and Elwood each shift in their seats. Despite my father’s proclivities, I have gathered the impression that Dash—executor of Andrew Owens’s will—was once considered the sharper Owens next to his shallow, worthlessly wealthy siblings. His invocation, I would guess, is an unpleasant memory.

“Fortune,” Leonie declares, her pronouncement picking up finality like she’s coming to her conclusion, “is misfortune . It has distilled every relationship I have ever had into poison. It has ruined me. My gift to you… is freeing you from this curse.”

Hushed uncertainty descends over the room. Eyes dart nervously. The impact of Leonie’s deathbed declaration has changed into precarious confusion.

Leonie smiles. Her welcome, I know, has reached its knifepoint.

“I have revised my will. I intend,” my grandmother says, calmly folding one hand over the other atop her chair, “to be buried with my fortune.”

I clench my glass, my knuckles whitening.

Hammond gapes. Someone’s silverware clatters to the floor, the metallic sound shattering the silence. I recognize the look on every Owens face now. The fear. The desperation. The wretched intellect. Scheming.

My stomach drops. Leonie’s news is… disastrous.

If I’d had years to plan and predict, I couldn’t have accounted for the pains the new development presents.

I knew I would face rival agendas while here.

I just didn’t expect every single Owens to have their eyes on the vault.

Leonie has just announced open season on the very prize I’m plotting to steal.