Page 25

T OM GIVES ME THE SIGNAL WHEN THE WAITERS CLEAR OUR SEVENTH course out of ten. I rise from my seat, hoping the servers’ movements will lessen the attention drawn to me.

Once more, Leonie hasn’t come down for the evening meal. Right now, though, my focus is Mia.

I leave Abigail, whose place setting is next to mine, implicitly indicating once again that Leonie knows exactly who Abigail is. The rest of the family don’t, I infer from the uninterested politeness they offer my sister. She receives no questions or second glances.

On my way from the room, I pass Deonte, seated next to Kevin. In his crisp dinner jacket, Deonte looks nervous. Not, I know, for heist-related reasons. Deonte prepared this evening’s ninth course under Pierre Gestault’s interested oversight.

Which is why I pause next to him. “What’s tonight’s dessert called?” I whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Sacher torte. One of the most famous cakes in the world. It’s fire,” he murmurs. “When done correctly.”

“Sacher torte.” I repeat his pronunciation.

When Deonte nods, I continue on. I steal into the kitchen, which looks like a restaurant’s and has as much staff as one. In coordinated chaos, chefs plate the second entrée course with hectic precision, with dessert coming up after. The room is heavy with the sumptuous scents of meat and sauce.

Moving with purpose, I approach the counter. Gorgeous slices of Sacher torte wait plated on the countertop. I grab one, and with authority, head for the door with the only weapon I need—dessert.

Carrying my chocolatey cover story, I continue into the hallway—

Where I run right into Mia.

She smiles her shiniest, sharpest smile. Tom flanks her, looking uneasy. This was not the plan. I had hoped to catch Mia upstairs in the act of searching Leonie’s quarters, ideally after letting her lead us to the ring, which Otto had promised to return to its hiding place.

I fire Tom a glare. His purpose here isn’t mocking Jackson or dressing fancily, either of which he could do in Rhode Island. It’s managing my cousin, ensuring Mia is only where I want her to be.

We’ll just have to make this work.

“Couldn’t wait for dessert?” she asks. Her eyes dip to the plate in my hands.

“I’m bringing some to Grandmother,” I reply. Vindictiveness inspires the confession. Even if I have ulterior motives, I want Mia to feel as if she’s not the only worthwhile granddaughter under Volenvell’s roof. “You know she loves Sacher torte.”

“No, she—” Mia starts to contradict me, then falters. I’m not expecting the shadow of sorrow on my cousin’s face. “She never used to have dessert. For her health,” Mia murmurs. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

My cousin’s reaction reveals she doesn’t know our grandmother’s death is pretend. For whatever reason, Leonie is content to let Mia wrestle with unnecessary grief.

The love in Mia’s voice surprises, then enrages me. Jealousy fills my veins like poison. She gets to love our grandmother. She’s had Leonie in her life for the past decade while someone—Dash or Leonie—withheld my Swiss family from me.

I understand the contradiction in my longing.

I should want to scorn people who’ve scorned and tormented me.

Only part of me does. Part of the Owens curse means never escaping how I wish they felt like my family, instead of the family I’m waiting outside of, pounding on the cold door of their embrace.

Intrigue dances into Mia’s eyes, replacing her sadness. “How very sweet of you. We’ll come with,” she proposes.

Relief rushes over me. “That’s okay,” I reply, concealing how she’s walked into my plan. I need to resist, to make her think she has the upper hand.

“I insist,” Mia says. Of course she does. Mia loves insisting. “I know!” she exclaims. Her eyes light up. “We can all go up to Grandmother together. You can get Jackson. It’ll be like a double date!”

“I’d personally opt out of that,” Tom replies. “If I’m going to go on a double date with my ex, I’d prefer if she were dating someone less dull than Jackson.”

I recognize his effort to divert my cousin. Nevertheless, her suggestion sets my mind in motion. Reconfiguring. New plans, new possibilities. It certainly couldn’t hurt to have more eyes on Leonie’s rooms. On Mia.

“Come on, Tom,” I say. “Give Jackson a chance.”

I make direct eye contact with him, silently communicating. He understands. His arm slides around Mia’s waist. “If I must,” he says.

I hand my cousin the plate of cake. Reentering the dining room, I pass family members enjoying the lamb on my way to Jackson. He remained right where I left him, of course, loyal in inconspicuousness. Abigail watches me.

I lean over to whisper in Jackson’s ear. “I need your help,” I murmur. “We need to keep Mia from getting the ring.”

Jackson stands from his seat with quick readiness. He ignores the glances of Owens family members who no doubt expect I’ve summoned him to make out in uncrowded corners of the castle or something. We proceed into the hallway.

He stiffens when he notices the other members of my impromptu ring party waiting at the stairs. Namely, Tom.

“Play nice, boys,” Mia cautions, pleased.

“Oh, don’t worry. Playing nice is the only way Jackson plays at all,” Tom says.

“Well, Olivia’s loss is my gain,” my cousin coos.

I say nothing. Jackson follows my lead, knowing the heist is worth withstanding insults from our favorite Volenvell couple.

We proceed up the main staircase Leonie descended in her impressive entrance yesterday.

Mia still holds the dessert plate, and Tom takes her other arm while she manages the stairs in her heels.

Her footsteps are flawless, however. I suspect my crew member’s hand placement has more to do with the opportunity to caress her smooth skin than steadying her.

On the highest floor, luxurious rugs line the passageway leading to Leonie’s private quarters. I follow Mia, whose pace indicates familiarity with this part of the castle.

“Grandmother is usually in her private study at this hour,” she confirms.

She leads us up more stairs into what I know is one of the towers. The East Tower, I visualize on my Volenvell mental map. The white-painted stone walls close us in, the narrow windows revealing nothing of the lightless night. Finally, Mia invites us in past heavy wooden doors.

Leonie’s private quarters feel pulled out of Pinterest fantasies, with deep red rugs, enormous wooden shelves of dark wood, and cushioned furniture of the finest fabric. Firelight flickers over the handsome antique armchairs.

Her dinner dishes remain, everything neatly finished except for the wineglass. The half-empty bottle waits nearby. The room is warmly welcoming, the perfect refuge from scheming family.

My grandmother, however, is nowhere to be found.

Mia’s eyes light up. “How about a game?”