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T HE DINING ROOM IS TRANSFORMED. T HE LONG TABLE HAS BEEN removed, replaced with intimate circular tables set with crystal and elegant white rose centerpieces.

The red drapes have been swapped for silver ones with threads that sparkle in the light.

Outside the windows, the snowy mountaintop gleams in the moonlight.

While servers circulate with caviar and champagne, Tom and I step carefully around the guests donned in white-tie formal wear. Lively string music drifts in over the sound of conversation.

In the back of the room, the arched doors on either side of the stone fireplace are thrown open for the first time.

The castle’s ballroom probably hasn’t been used in half a century.

Tonight, it’s open and lit up. Guests flit in and out of the arched doorways conjoining the two spaces.

As we enter, my eyes are drawn to the largest chandelier I’ve ever seen, dominating the air, casting the rich hardwood floor in warm light beneath its looping strings of crystals.

The ceiling itself is decorated in elaborate gold filigree.

Every corner of the room speaks to Volenvell’s wealth. To Leonie’s legacy.

People dance to the live string quartet as they circle the room’s centerpiece—a massive ice sculpture of Volenvell itself, rendered atop the carved contours of the mountain. Water glistens on its silvery surface. It’s hypnotic, watching ourselves melt.

Passing the ice castle, I straighten, undaunted on Tom’s arm. In the gleaming room, I can’t help feeling like… royalty. Like I’ve been swept out of time.

It has to be Leonie’s intention. Centuries come and go, and this castle—this family—remains.

On top of the world. The fact that her birthday coincides with the final day of the year is just another reminder of her endurance.

In other parties around the world, people are making resolutions, contemplating goals, and hoping for fresh starts.

Here in Volenvell, the date is dominated by Leonie. It almost feels like a threat. Another year of Leonie. She may be pretending she’s dying, but we’re gathered here to celebrate her life. Much like the sculpture—slowly melting, but the magnificent center of the room until its final drop.

Endings and beginnings, locked together in chains of gold and ice.

I pull my eyes from the setting, focusing instead on our marks.

Leonie, dressed in a glittering silver-and-black gown, dances with Elwood’s husband in an effortless waltz, no sign of her feigned illness slowing her down.

Hammond stands near the wide windows, watching.

The faint circles under his eyes are the only trace of his trips to and from the hospital to visit Mia.

Dash stands with Abigail near the musicians.

To unsuspecting family, it probably looks like a touching if slightly awkward reconnection of father and daughter.

In reality, Abigail is making sure Dash upholds his side of our deal, and Dash will stay at Abigail’s side until we uphold ours.

Actually, that sort of is them reconnecting. In their way.

I watch as Dash nods to the dance floor. Abigail vehemently shakes her head, looking aghast.

“When would I have learned how to waltz?” I hear her say incredulously.

“I’ll teach you,” my father replies.

My sister scowls, but she doesn’t resist when Dash tugs her by the elbow to the edge of the dancing guests.

I continue my surveillance. Deonte sits on one of the golden-upholstered benches, his eyes casually on Abigail. If Dash tries to flee, he’ll be ready to stop him. Through the doorway to the dining room, I see Grace sipping champagne with Sofia. Kevin is nowhere to be found.

I check the white-and-gold grandfather clock at the head of the room. It’s only nine. There’s still time.

“Do you want to eat or dance?” Tom asks, drawing my focus back to him.

“I’m too nervous to eat,” I tell him honestly. Kevin will be here on time. I know he will. He’s proven I can trust him. Even if he doesn’t… we can figure out another distraction. We can—

Tom cuts off the contingencies spiraling through my thoughts. “Dancing it is, then,” he says. He sweeps us toward the dance floor, his stomach evidently perfectly at ease.

Of course, Tom’s hand easily finds my waist, while his other holds my hand aloft.

Perfect waltzing posture. He raises an eyebrow, silently challenging if I’m ready.

I place my free hand on his shoulder blade and straighten my back, my childhood of cotillion and endless fundraising galas returning hazily to me as Tom steps us into the waltz.

His hands guide me. His embrace steadies me. I know how right we look together to everyone. How easily he fits into this dangerous, dazzling world.

“You did the right thing,” he whispers close to my ear.

I feel his breath, hot on my neck. It makes me shiver. When I dart my gaze to his, I find his eyes half-lidded, locked on me.

“If that’s true, then why are you looking at me like that?” I ask. “You’ve never liked me for doing what’s right.”

The corner of his lip tugs up with dark delight. “You have no idea the things I like and dislike, Olivia.”

Minutes steal away from us startlingly quickly. When we tire of dancing, we partake of the dinner of quail raviolini, polenta, and lobster mousse. We talk to my family. To Grace and Sofia. We admire the ice sculpture, noting where the melting water carves grooves into the crystalline surface.

Still, Kevin doesn’t enter.

I fight desperately not to watch the doors. The plan needs to go into motion soon, with or without him.

I catch Abigail’s eye across the ballroom, my anxiety reflected in her expression.

Deonte faces the entrance, his foot tapping off the beat.

My crew is getting restless. Soon, I’ll need to give them the signal—wishing Leonie a happy birthday.

If we don’t have our distraction secured, everything that follows will be a lot riskier.

Tom squeezes my hand. “There,” he says, breathless with relief.

I turn in time to see Kevin nearly skip into the dining room. He pats down his hair. Even from a distance, I can tell his bow tie is just slightly askew.

It doesn’t matter. He’s here. I resist the urge to run to him for an update. Kevin knows his job.

Sure enough, he grabs a champagne glass off a passing tray with surprising smoothness and crosses the dining room to join us in the ballroom.

“This room is sick ,” he says when he reaches us. “No offense, Olivia, your dad’s house is really nice, but why didn’t he get married here ?”

“Kevin,” I say quietly. Literally no part of me cares to discuss Kevin’s thoughts on my father’s wedding venue. Especially when I don’t even know if he was successful in his assignment.

“Oh my god,” he says suddenly, as if he’s remembered something.

I feel my heart stop in my chest. Did he forget part of his job? Did—

“Olivia. You should have your wedding here one day. That would be, like, unreal.”

Relief and rage wreak havoc on my nervous system. “Kevin,” I repeat, sterner now.

“What?” he asks, seeming genuinely baffled. “Oh! Happy New Year! Here’s to another year of friendship!” He lifts his champagne glass in a toast.

“Dude,” Tom says next to me, his tone as impatient as mine. “You’re two hours late.”

Kevin shrugs. “The coolest people arrive to parties late. Everyone knows that.”

I grit my teeth, knowing what I have to do to focus Kevin and not liking it. “Yes, you’re extremely cool,” I say stiffly. “Now please tell us you did it.”

He grins at the praise, as I knew he would.

“Kevin Webber always comes through,” he proclaims.