Page 33

T HE GAME brEAKS EARLY FOR HALFTIME.

Dash preens in the victory of his arrival. Ushering us inside the palatial tent, Leonie loudly exhorts everyone to welcome the prodigal son, home to Volenvell . Her words.

She seems to really mean it. The lightness in her step continues in the tent, which, despite the memorable resemblance to Dash and Maureen’s wedding reception, is a welcome refuge from the frosty temperatures outside.

The scents of sweets and savories fill the rich warmth in the powerfully heated sanctuary.

My friends pile their plates high with rosti potato pancakes and Gruyère omelets. Within the comforts of the canvas, I should be enjoying myself.

Should.

Instead, I observe my father with the doubt he deserves. He’s up to no good, I know he is. He doesn’t mean his politesse, his pleasant humor. While I would not consider my father hardworking or skillful, I know Dashiell Owens is cunning. Convincing when he wants to be. He’s working his magic.

Except for Hammond and Elwood, who watch dourly from the corner—their polo rivalry rather charmingly forgotten with the common enemy of my father uniting them—everyone is enchanted.

Dash glad-hands when recognized, introduces himself earnestly when not.

I remember the jealousy I would feel when I was younger, witnessing my father charm investors or executives.

I don’t feel it now. I know what none of these people do—who my father really is.

While I prod my Gruyère omelet with dispassion I do not often feel for fine cheese, Dash reaches Mia. I straighten, watching the interaction with new interest.

Has Dash discovered or guessed that my cousin stole his cuff links? Mia plays posh hostess perfectly, receiving Dash’s hug with one of her delicate, graceful smiles.

Then, when Dash withdraws from her embrace, he gently lifts her braceleted wrist, where the cuff links dangle. Mia lets him. Dash says something I can’t hear, his eyes locked on the bracelet.

He’d deduced his dagger cuff links were somewhere in Switzerland. Now he’s found them.

He withdraws from my cousin and resumes making the rounds as if he’s the host of this reunion. It doesn’t matter to him how many people in this room hate him. Others’ opinions of him have never stopped him from taking a stage.

His interaction with Mia expends the last of my patience. Enough interruptions, enough unanswered questions. I stand up from my seat. No one follows, though this may have to do with Deonte explaining to everyone the virtues of zopf , the egg bread we were served with orange-rosemary marmalade.

When I reach Dash, my father is laughing with Leonie’s siblings. Getting on freaking famously with his uncles.

I don’t hesitate. Coming up next to Dash, I grab his elbow, interrupting his conversation. “We need to talk,” I inform him. “Now.”

I hate the infantilization in the glance Dash gives his family. “Excuse me,” he requests. Enjoying whatever punch line preceded my intrusion, Dash’s uncles wave him off with indulgence.

I draw Dash from the tent, remembering how he wrenched me into his study when I “broke up” with Thomas during the wedding. I mirror his impatience now. The upside-down gift of Dash’s parenting is using his worst qualities when I need them.

Past the flaps of the canvas, I stop in the unwelcoming cold. It’s fitting. Out in the cold is the reception Dash should have received from our family, not the man-of-the-year parade.

Yet when the wind ruffles his silvering hair, Dash only looks comfortable.

Amid the pure white scenery, he eyes me with an evaluating glare. “ Now you want to talk,” he remarks. “It’s been months without so much as a phone call.” I notice he has a fistful of candy-coated almonds when he pops one in his mouth. Where did he even get those?

“We had nothing to talk about. Why are you here?” I ask.

“I’m not here for you. Don’t worry,” he returns coldly.

“Of course not. You’re here for you. For your cuff links,” I say, working it out.

The mention of them displeases my father. “And you’re here for you, Olivia. We both have our reasons for coming to Volenvell,” he replies. “It’s not like what you’re doing here is selfless family reconnection.”

“Who says I’m doing anything?” I have no intention of making this conversation easy for him. I owe him every frustration, every inconvenience he’s heaped on me. Inheritance in reverse. From daughter to father.

My evasion does not have the desired effect, however.

Dash gives me the same smile he used on every charmed relative.

“I am your father, Olivia,” he reminds me. “I know some things about you.”

Understatement of the year. Some things. He knows I robbed millions of dollars from him. He knows the name of every person who helped me, including the daughter he hid from our family. He knows I have no fondness for Leonie to compel me to Switzerland otherwise.

Most inconveniently, he knows never to underestimate me.

I grit my teeth. Denying his insinuation is no use. “Then why do you even care?” I return.

His brows furrow in concern.

“I would never want anything to happen to you,” he says.

The words weaken me instantly. Oh, how I hate it. Hate it. Despite my plans, my resentments, my emotional weaponry, one word of compassion from Dash reduces me to the little girl who tried so hard to please him.

“You’re my heir,” he continues matter-of-factly.

The bitter cold rages back.

Of course he doesn’t care for his daughter . He’s protecting his investment. His progeny. The insinuation coded in the only compliment he’s ever given me. You are my legacy. Not I’m proud of you. I miss you. I love you.

“So, what?” I prompt him. “If you even try to tell anyone what I’m doing, I’ll share what I learned in your safe.”

It’s tempting to tell everyone right now. The revelation would remove Dash from interfering with my very in-progress heist. Plus, his expulsion would probably be funny. But when that secret comes out, I won’t have leverage on him anymore. I need to hold on to it as long as I can.

My warning does not intimidate or frustrate him, however. “By all means,” he reassures me. “Take everything you can from Leonie. I know how capable you are. Hell, I’ll even help you.”

Missing me was one thing. Encouraging me to steal from his mother is something else. “What happened to, I’m such a terrible son, please welcome me home ?” I press him.

“Oh, come on,” my father grumbles. “I only said that shit so Leonie wouldn’t send me home.”

I purse my lips, considering. Dash’s hatred of Leonie isn’t something for us to bond over, I remind myself. It only means we have the same opponent. I know the saying—the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Whatever genius philosopher invented it never contemplated the enemy of my enemy is still my shit-eating father . Words of wisdom from Olivia Owens.

“I don’t need your help,” I inform him.

His expression goes cold. “We’ll see about that.” He crunches down on another white-coated almond. “Have you gotten your hands on Leonie’s wedding ring? You called me asking about my father because you’re having trouble getting the combination, right?”

I hide my surprise. Or I hope I do. I have the uncomfortable feeling my father is one of the few people who knows what’s underneath my unflinching veneer. I say nothing, reminded of lectures for muddy footsteps or running in the halls of the Rhode Island estate. The chastened child.

Dash grins. Of course he knows he caught me off guard.

“You could still learn a thing or two from your dear old dad, Olivia,” he crows, enjoying my embarrassment. “Don’t forget that. I’ve been playing this game a lot longer than you have.”

He turns to walk back to the tent, his footsteps crunching the snow evenly under his loafers.

“It’s good to see you again. I’m looking forward to catching up with you this week,” he says before entering, nothing performed in his voice now.

Without waiting for my reply, he walks in from the cold, returning to his reunion with the family he hates.

I’m left the way Dash Owens invariably always leaves me. Shaken, robbed of composure no matter how much I want to cling to confidence. How? How does he have this power over me?

Deep down, I know this is why I’ve resisted communication with him for the past few months. I wanted to believe stealing millions of dollars from him—outsmarting him, defeating him—would help me defy the hold he has over my emotions. I hoped it would. I expected it would.

I just didn’t want to be proven wrong.

Expect the worst. Then expect even worse.

I inhale, then exhale several deep breaths, clouds forming from my lips. Composure stolen isn’t gone forever. I calm my pounding pulse, refusing to rejoin the welcome brunch looking weepy or withdrawn.

Reluctantly, I follow my father back into the tent, expecting to console myself with zopf or omelet.

Instead, Otto’s staff have started clearing plates. The third chukker is set to commence in five minutes. The family is eager to get the game underway given the laboriously refereed pace of the first half.

Mia has donned a polo uniform. Good. My cousin occupied with horsemanship and intricate family debates over the sport’s rules means she’s not scheming or interfering with my own plans.

While everyone starts to get up, one voice rises over the rest. “Where’s my old helmet?”

It’s Dash. Of course it is. I remember how dangerously invested he got in every Volenvell snow polo match I’ve ever experienced.

Not nitpicking fouls like his siblings—no, he just played hard.

Intimidating them with his vigorous, sometimes reckless riding and strategy.

My father joining the game now is a development I should’ve expected.

Elwood clenches her jaw, helpless to reject him.

Hammond is occupied. Ejected from the game himself, he’s counseling Finn, who stares forward emptily.

Hammond’s son missed a point in the first chukker, and he’s hearing about it now.

“ Don’t let me down ,” Hammond snaps. “Your grades, your complete lack of accomplishments. Now you can’t even score a point in a game against amateurs. ”

It’s painfully obvious how Hammond is conferring his frustration at his own expulsion from the pitch onto his son’s performance.

“If you keep losing, you won’t be one of us,” he promises Finn.

On my way to my table, I pause. The words I’ve just eavesdropped on remind me of something.

Don’t cry, Olivia. If you cry, you’ve lost. Mia’s pretty smile.

Locking me in the dungeon on Leonie’s orders.

If you’ve lost, you’ll never be one of us.

I learned from Mia herself how the inspiration for the cruel scheme came from our family.

Her words to me did, too, I realize. Mia probably had heard them from her own father like Finn is now.

With flash-fire rage, I consider ripping down this entire tent. Every day, every interaction, reminds me how fucking broken this family is. How this family breaks its own—

And in the midst of my fury, I have a horrible, wonderful idea.

Instead of Dash destabilizing me, I’m going to reassert control. Steal back part of myself. Dash is wrong , I remind myself. I don’t need him. I bested him before. I’ll do it again.

I just need to become what Hammond and Mia said. One of them.

“I need to change,” I announce. “I’m joining the game, too.”