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S NOW CRUNCHES UNDER D ASH’S FOOTSTEPS, THE ONLY SOUND ON the frozen lake except for the wary movements of the uncomfortable ponies. No one speaks. Everyone watches the unexpected guest’s entrance with discomfort commingled with rage. Including me.

Dash’s hands sway, relaxed in leather gloves. He does not look like he just got off a transatlantic flight—private, no doubt, presumably the Owens Group jet—followed by hours in a hired car into Rothbad and the mountains.

He looks comfortable. Confident.

I figured immense wealth produced my father’s imperturbable demeanor. Now I wonder whether Dashiell Owens just has the power of permanent ease.

Hammond and Elwood watch him furiously. It’s funny, the comparisons I notice now. They resemble my father in height, figure, facial structure. Yet my Swiss-raised aunt and uncle look like modern-day nobles, pointless and posh. My father looks presidential.

He comes closer. Leonie rises from her seat.

I find myself leaning forward in reluctant interest, watching my relatives’ reunion as if it’s reality television. Real Housewives of Rothbad. Selling Switzerland. Keeping Up with the Owenses.

Dash stops feet from his mother.

“Happy birthday, Leonie,” he says.

The first words I’ve heard my father speak in person for months echo over the polo pitch.

I notice the naming convention he used immediately. Leonie. Not Mom , the counterpart to saying Dad when he referred to my grandfather over the phone.

It reminds me of—well, of someone else who refers to her father using his first name.

Leonie remains impossible to surprise or perturb. She regards Dash with the reserve every guest receives. “You were not invited,” she replies.

Dash scoffs, enjoying himself.

“Hasn’t it been long enough?” he implores with nothing except charm. He’s not pleading. He’s speaking to Leonie like—I don’t know—his golf rival or something. “Let’s let go of our grudges before it’s too late,” he continues.

Leonie’s frown tightens.

“You’ve heard, then,” she says.

“Hammond called me. He seemed to think I could convince you to see more doctors. I know better, though,” Dash replies.

“Of course you do. So, what? Come to say goodbye to your dying mother? Hope to have a chance at the other half of the Owens’ fortune?”

Neither of them refers to Leonie’s not-really-impending demise with sadness. Leonie knows Leonie’s not dying. Does Dash?

“I don’t want your money,” Dash replies, his tone scathing. “I’m your only child who can say that.”

Leonie’s lips twitch. Amusement? Anger?

Dash’s eyes don’t move to his siblings. Mine do.

Hammond and Elwood, the latter mounted on her horse, fume.

Their reaction is entertaining enough for me to momentarily forget I hate my father.

Momentarily. I flit my gaze to Abigail, who I find follows our grandmother’s example. Wary. Emotionless. Ice-sculpted.

“I’m waiting, Dashiell,” Leonie prompts.

There’s a challenge in her tone, the reprisal of some old argument. The reason he was cast from the family, I suspect.

My father’s eyes flash. “I’m sorry, Mother. For everything I have done. I’ve been a terrible son,” he says.

Disdain, colder than sarcasm, coats his words.

Of course. Dash doesn’t apologize, ever.

I wonder if Quinn’s replacement scripted the sentiment for him and emailed it over on the private jet’s Wi-Fi.

From the uncomfortable rustling in the seating section, I know everyone hears it.

He’s shown up uninvited, only to embarrass his mother with his mockery of contrition—

Leonie smiles.

She holds her arms outstretched, feet from Dash. I watch in stunned silence as my father crosses the distance between them. His shining shoes do not slide on the slick snow. Every Owens family reunion occurs on metaphorical thin ice—the frozen lake beneath us just makes the metaphor literal.

Dash steps into Leonie’s embrace.

“Welcome home, Dashiell,” my grandmother says with the first warmth I’ve ever heard in her voice.

My eyes widen. Hammond storms into the tent while Elwood scowls.

Dash hugs his mother, and unlike with his apology, sincere emotion crosses his features, as if he…

missed Leonie. With dread forming in the pit of my pounding heart, I realize I might have underestimated the complexity of my father’s relationship with Leonie.

Exactly what I needed.

In watchmaking, I found out during one restless Wikipedia session, each feature on the watch face—dials, hands, or counters—increases the value and impressiveness of the watch and heightens the required craftsmanship and maintenance.

Watch experts don’t call them features or components. They call them complications .

When Leonie withdraws from his embrace, my father searches the polo spectators. His cold consideration passes over cousins and in-laws, impatient equestrian enthusiasts and fawning fortune-seekers, only stopping when his eyes fall like fresh snow on…

Me.

His smile is grand and inviting.

Complications.