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T HE MOMENT THE COURTYARD CLEARS, I RUSH TO MY ROOM. I WALK swiftly, restraining myself from running, not wanting to raise suspicion. It’s not easy, not with the observation I’ve just made searing in my mind.

Mia isn’t wearing her cuff link bracelet.

When Leonie clasped my cousin’s hand on the stretcher, I glimpsed one of Mia’s wrists clearly. The other rested on her stomach. No cuff links.

Meaning either she left them in our room, or… they were blown off her in the explosion and they’re in the dungeon. I feel like I’m collecting worst-case scenarios today the way Tom collects pocket squares.

I should have checked whether she was wearing the bracelet in the vault, I reprimand myself. I would’ve saved myself the stressed hustle I’m making into Volenvell’s hallways to the room I no longer share with Mia.

If they’re in the rubble of the dungeon, I’ll need to convince Dash to work with me without them—promise him the chance to retrieve them from the dungeon while I’m executing my heist so long as he doesn’t give anyone else the ring’s real combination.

Leonie said she was going to repair the vault tonight.

I can’t let Dash give the ring to whatever Knives remain, assuming Leonie doesn’t change the combination.

I launch myself up the stairs and round the corners to my room until I reach our corridor—

Where I find my door is open.

I pause, catching my breath. Summoning confidence, I stride into the room, ready to throw out whoever’s trespassing.

But who I find is no trespasser. Not exactly.

Otto stands over Mia’s bed, packing her designer suitcase.

He’s dustless, impressively. The black suit he’s wearing would show vault rubble like fingerprints, yet its night color is unsullied.

I watch as he retrieves Mia’s clothes from the armoire, lays them out on the comforter, then folds them into the suitcase with customary precision.

Shit.

I can’t search Mia’s things if Otto is removing them.

Improvising quickly, I join Otto over the suitcase. “Let me help,” I offer. I make my voice sound shaken, worry-struck.

Otto eyes me curiously. He doesn’t stop folding Mia’s sweaters with methodical, pincerlike movements. “I know you did not even want to room with your cousin. Now you want to help pack her things?” he inquires.

I find real emotion comes easily into my lie. “I really hope she’s okay. I… never wanted something like this to give me my own room,” I confess.

“Mia will recover,” Otto replies, matter-of-fact. He sounds neither relieved for Mia’s health nor resentful of the damage to Volenvell.

I reach for the closest sweater he’s laid out. Otto eyes me when I start folding, but he does not tell me to stop, which is something. Of course, the clothing won’t help me. I need to reach Mia’s vanity, where she often kept her bracelet. I just need to establish trust with Otto first.

“I do not know if she would want your help,” he finally comments. Gentle, yet not without edge. His resistance catches my curiosity. If he doesn’t want me here, I doubt discretion for my injured cousin is the reason.

“Did she ask for yours?” I return.

His lips twitch, the reaction I’ve noticed when he’s on the verge of a real smile instead of his professional politeness. “Fair enough,” he concedes. He leaves the suitcase, starting to search the room, opening drawers inquisitively. “Her jewelry,” he says. “Do you know where she kept it?”

My hands freeze on the sweater. Only momentarily, of course. The next instant, I continue folding, desperately hoping Otto did not notice.

I can’t let him pack Mia’s jewelry. I need to end his efforts immediately, without negotiation. Which means… it’s time to play heiress.

“I’ll do it,” I say loftily. “It’s not right for staff to handle family heirlooms.”

Otto clicks his tongue. “Olivia. Please,” he reprimands. “You invited more than a few non-family members into this castle to do just that.”

The cold shock of his words silences me.

Otto knows. He knows why I’m here. The heist. My crew. My designs on Leonie’s vaulted fortune.

How could he? My mind spins. Surveillance in the vault?

Otto moves to the vanity, where he pulls jewelry boxes from the drawers. He dumps them unceremoniously on the vanity. Silver and gemstones spill out.

“Do you know where Mia’s charm bracelet is?” he asks, nonchalant, as if he didn’t just accuse me of planning a heist of his employer’s fortune. “She’s not wearing it, and it wasn’t in the dungeon.”

His interest in the cuff links indicates the house manager knows much more than I would’ve thought. How?

I feel hidden mechanisms working. Ones I need to predict or destroy. Standing here silently, the innocent heiress, won’t help me.

“You’re looking for the cuff links,” I guess. “Want to join the Knives, Otto?”

“Join them…,” Otto repeats. He laughs.

When he faces me, I’m startled by how his features have sharpened. Not menacing, just… in control.

“No, I do not need to join them,” he says, closing the jewelry box.

In the cold calculus of his eyes, I find new possibilities—new complications—starting to spin. Heart pounding, I check Otto’s cuff links. They’re… unremarkable.

“One mustn’t always wear the insignia,” he says. “Sometimes we wish to be more secretive.”

We.

Ice rushes into my veins. He’s one of them. Does Leonie know? No. His very last words answer that question. Otto is keeping his connection to the Knives secret here. How many people in this very castle have ties to the club? I hold my posture upright despite the ground shifting beneath me.

Otto steeples his fingers together. “I figured you’d have guessed by now that I am not merely the house manager of Volenvell Castle.”

With Otto’s every sentence, I’m coming to understand what’s happening under Volenvell’s roof is more complicated than I ever knew.

I fight for composure. “Honestly? Being a house manager suits you. I don’t know who you really are, but I think you’ve found your calling, Otto,” I reply with heavy sarcasm.

I won’t pretend I have knowledge I don’t, but I definitely will pretend the information doesn’t unnerve me.

“If Otto even is your real name. I’m guessing the real Otto Karlson is locked in your basement somewhere? ”

Otto’s polite smile loses some of its polish.

“Nothing like that,” he reassures me. “Your questions, however, give me to understand I must… reintroduce myself.”

He extends his hand. I’m guessing he intends the parody of his downstairs welcome four days ago.

“I’m Otto Karlson,” he says. “The chairman of the Knives Club.”