Page 45

N EITHER L EONIE NOR I HAVE THE CHANCE TO RESPOND. I WOULDN’T know how to even if I could. My hand clasped in his, Jackson draws me inside.

I follow him, stunned, impressed, and—confused. Did Jackson just declare his intention to marry me?

Did two boys just make romantic declarations to me in two days?

Not exactly the prize I intended to score by pulling heists, but I’m not completely mad about it.

When Jackson steers us into the hallway to the kitchens, I recover my powers of speech and control over my unsteady legs. I pause in the passageway. “What was that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I want him to know I’m intrigued, not indignant.

Jackson is breathing hard. He’s caught up in himself, distracted.

He runs his free hand through his hair. I recognize the reaction, knowing well the adrenaline of confrontations like the one he just had with my grandmother.

With effort, he focuses his eyes on me, his passion colliding with his righteous indignation.

“I needed her to know I’m not someone she can just toss aside. I need everyone to know that. I’m in this,” he insists. “Like you.”

I’m in this.

His eyes clear, his meaning heavy.

“I think you more than succeeded,” I remark.

Jackson huffs a grateful laugh. “Good,” he says.

Leaning closer, I walk my hand up his chest. “So?” I prompt him. “Are you going to propose? Should I check my desserts for hidden rings? Did you collude with Deonte? Or maybe Kevin will plan some elaborate distraction and you’ll—”

He kisses me, cutting me off.

“You can’t mastermind your own proposal, Olivia,” he informs me. He smiles when I pout in feigned disappointment. “And no,” he continues. “Not… yet. One day. When we’re older. When I can afford… the diamond you deserve.”

Yet. The word echoes everywhere in me, flooding adrenaline of my own into my veins, an ecstatic rush. Forget your heart , Tom counseled.

Never.

I look into Jackson’s eyes.

“Yet,” I repeat.

“Don’t pretend you’re surprised, new girl,” Jackson chastens me. “I wouldn’t do all this”—he glances down the hallway, indicating Volenvell—“if you didn’t mean absolutely fucking everything to me.”

I grin. “And I wouldn’t make just any boyfriend into my accomplice,” I assure him.

He laughs again. “Accomplice. I like it,” he replies. “I’ll be your accomplice in anything, Olivia. If you’ll have me.”

I’m opening my mouth to reply when Jackson’s eyes flit past me to a shadow in the hallway.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised no one has asked for my permission,” Dash says, stepping into the light. “It’s not like you asked for my permission when you went into my safe, either.”

The adrenaline in me changes into fast fury. I’m in utterly no mood for interruptions, not to mention I have zero patience for my father’s unpredictable humor. “What do you want?” I demand.

Dash comes closer. “Come with me,” he urges. “You need to hear what I have to say.”

“I don’t,” I retort. “I promise you, I’m not interested.”

He grimaces, impatient, and checks around us for eavesdroppers.

“I’ve come to you with an offer. A strategic partnership,” he continues, speaking quickly and quietly.

A strategic partnership. Like I’m Spotify or his favorite energy drink or something.

“An alliance,” he elaborates. “Do what I ask, and I’ll give you Leonie’s wedding ring.

The one with the combination, not her anniversary. ”

I roll my eyes, and it feels great. I wonder if I have developed special muscles for eye-rolling over the years. One more gift Dash never intended to impart.

“No thanks,” I say. I don’t want him to know I have the ring. I do want him to know his intrusion is unwelcome.

“I know you think you have the ring, Olivia,” Dash replies. “But you don’t. You haven’t had it since Norway.”

His voice is unnervingly calm. I falter, hoping I’m concealing my confusion. His knowledge of the fact that I had the ring in Norway makes his challenge convincing.

I do have the ring, though. I have it in the backpack I’m wearing right now. And I’ve memorized the combination. Still, the thought of anyone else getting the combination is… worrisome.

Unfortunately, I know Dash. I know not to discount him, to write off his pompous charm for ignorance or his wealthy entitlement for lack of initiative. I learned it the hard way when he hired my sister to infiltrate my first heist.

His posture relaxes. Watching us dispassionately, he even dares to shrug.

“You have five minutes to make your decision,” he says. “Align with me, or your heist ends here.”