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N OBODY COMMENTS ON MY NEW ROSE-PATTERNED D OLCE & G ABBANA case when I place my iPhone flat on the table next to the photograph from my invitation. Yes, part of me was hoping they would notice—especially the fashionable Grace—but it’s okay. They’re in heist mode. I understand.

Open on my screen is the map I found online of Volenvell Castle.

My grandmother only started living in the inherited property in the nineties, and fortunately for me, the castle used to be open to tourists one day a week.

A PhD student in the eighties had toured Volenvell while researching a paper, which I read online.

Included with various fascinating facts on Swiss mercenaries, I found the convenient map currently displayed for my crew.

“The vault is in the castle’s West Tower,” I say. I point to the dungeon on the map, right beside the courtyard. “It’s inaccessible from the rest of the castle. Only from the courtyard, which—”

I point to the labels surrounding the courtyard. Bedroom. Bedroom. Bedroom. Bedroom. It goes on. Welcoming for those historical mercenaries. Very unfortunate for us.

“—is in full view of every single guest in residence,” I inform the crew. “Which is why we need to wait for every resident of the castle to be distracted. My grandmother’s party gives us the perfect opportunity.”

Tom reclines on the cream-white couch, contemplative. Deonte kneels in front of the phone. Grace purses her lips. “What kind of lock are we dealing with here?” she inquires, pointing to the door in the photograph.

“Don’t worry about the lock,” I say. “I can pick it.”

Everyone falls silent. I feel their impressed stares and notice a few raised eyebrows.

“After Dash showed me the vault,” I explain, “my fear subsided. Which meant my cousins’ taunts didn’t have the same effect on me anymore. Of course, they… didn’t like that.”

I remember the night they woke me up. Promising me they had something special to show me. Sweetened lies and slippered footsteps in the midnight hallways to the West Tower, until one rough shove—

“They locked me in the dungeon,” I say. “In the middle of the night. I screamed myself hoarse, but no one heard me—”

“Olivia,” Jackson interjects. Concern vibrates in his voice. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” I return. “I learned a few valuable lessons. First, sound doesn’t travel out of the tower.

We’ll have some privacy when we’re inside.

Second”—I smile—“I learned I could pick the lock. It took me half the night, but eventually I worked the mechanism using the bobby pins still left in my hair from the updo I complained about having to wear all night.”

When I freed myself, I told no one what had happened. Honestly, I didn’t know whether anyone in my family other than my mom would care. Only my imprisoners knew, and that day, their torment of me ceased. I felt… proud, watching their sneers change to wariness.

“And lastly,” I say, “I learned to never trust my fucking cousins.”

Only Tom smiles.

“If I could pick the lock as a child, I can pick it again,” I assure my crew.

“I can help,” Grace volunteers. “Locks are easy.”

“Locks may be easy, but what about cameras? Security?” Tom points out. It’s obvious sibling pettiness. Locks are easy, but what about cameras? I know you are, but what am I?

“I’m sorry,” Kevin interrupts. “ Locks are easy? Who are you?” He drops his voice, staring at Grace. “Are you single?”

Thomas snorts. Grace has the—well, grace to remain politely neutral. “You’re not my type,” she informs Kevin.

“I can accept that,” he replies affably.

“Fortunately, my grandmother’s distrust of everything also means she doesn’t trust outside security,” I answer Tom.

“She would never allow a stranger into her fortress to install surveillance around her vault, fearing they could then break in. There will be no silent alarms linked to outside private security or law enforcement.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Tom interjects.

I clear my throat. “My father,” I confess, irritated he’s helped us even minimally, even unintentionally. “Dash, a genius who has well protected his own money, complained constantly how backward his mother was for not having ‘real’ security for the Owens fortune.”

Deonte speaks up. “So if there are no alarms,” he pieces together, “then we don’t need a hacker.”

I look to Rook, wishing everyone would just move on from the Abigail subject. “No. We don’t need a hacker. Which is why we don’t have one,” I reply, hoping my demeanor holds just enough gentle impatience.

It doesn’t, apparently. “But Abigail was more than just a hacker to you,” Jackson notes softly. Et tu, boyfriend?

“Well, she’s not here,” I return sharply.

I know Jackson will recognize the razor of my reply from no, I would not rather go to the soccer party even though yes, of course I’m happy you won, it’s just everyone only wants to drink and play FIFA and I have homework and a heist to plan . My drop-it voice.

I don’t know how to explain the judgment I feel from him.

I know he’s viewing my situation from his standpoint, from his cozy Coventry house with the welcoming fireplace where he’s lived his whole life with his happily married, loving parents.

From his relationship with his sister, whom he drives to sleepovers, with whom he’s on his third full Friends rewatch.

Family doesn’t come with warm fuzzies for me like it does for Jackson.

Or I do know how to explain, and I don’t want to remind him of our differences. Of how he grew up without wealth, and yet with fortunes I’ve never known. I’m worried he’ll find me deficient. Impoverished of instincts he values.

“What we need for this job,” I say, glancing to Grace, “is a vault cracker.”

I earn no reaction from our newest crew member. Queen sits nonchalantly on the couch next to her sibling. It almost makes me invite her to introduce herself with three fun facts.

Everyone is intrigued. “Whoa,” Kevin exclaims. “You’ve broken into vaults?”

Grace examines her nails. “Not yet.”

Deonte’s face falls. He rounds on me. “You brought someone in to do a job they’ve never done before?”

“Look,” I reply defensively. “I could’ve hunted the uglier corners of the internet for someone with legitimate criminal credentials, but I never could’ve trusted them.

Besides, how many teen vault crackers do you think are out there?

The vibes would have been all off if I brought in some forty-year-old dude who lives in a bomb shelter. ”

“The vibe is key,” Kevin concurs thoughtfully. “Chess Club is about more than theft. It’s about friendship .”

I want to ridicule him for this statement, but… ugh, he’s right, or whatever.

“Chess Club. You keep repeating that. And yet I don’t see any chess in this plan,” Grace comments dryly.

Kevin’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah, it’s the name of our group chat. It’s popping year-round even without a heist. I’ll add you. What’s your number?”

“I haven’t signed on for friendship or a group chat quite yet,” Grace replies, and I have to smile—her complete disinterest in endearing herself to us is very cool—“but I feel compelled to share that while I haven’t yet cracked a vault, I’m an engineering physics major, dance minor at Stanford.

I can do literally anything I’ve set my mind to. ”

Nothing I have learned of Grace Pham contradicts her. In her freshman year, she’d won scholarships usually reserved for seniors. Of course, Tom loves her and hates her.

“After Thomas mentioned it might lead to a job opportunity, I started researching vaults as part of my independent work this semester. I’ve designed one, and if I don’t drop out, I’ll build it in the spring.

” She juts her chin at the map open on my phone.

“All I need is your vault model, and I’ll figure out a way in. ”

“Unfortunately, when I last laid eyes on the vault, I was five. I didn’t memorize its details,” I reply.

Grace’s mouth quirks. “Not to worry,” I go on.

“The first part of the plan will go into motion in the days before the party. I will be using Jackson as an excuse to tour the vaults, wanting to show off to my hot boyfriend.”

Jackson flushes. Tom coughs.

“We’ll get the information to Grace,” I say. “In the meantime”—I reach for my phone—“Tom will use his recent… connections to keep eyes on our most worrisome opponent.”

I swipe over to Instagram. Gone is the Volenvell map. When I return my phone to the table, the profile I’ve pulled up is displayed.

Mia Owens’s feed is full of wealth and glamour. I recognize a photo from New York Fashion Week, where Mia poses with nameless rich friends while her lanky brother, Finn, waits nearby. She’s dripping in jewels, her makeup minimal and flawless. As if she were sculpted from ice.

The rest of my cousin’s profile follows suit.

Thousands of followers, photographer-quality shots of the beautiful blonde at luxe events, at five-star hotels, on white-sand beaches.

Every caption thanks the brands that have styled her to perfection.

It doesn’t matter to me. I still see the girl who mocked my tears whenever I visited her Swiss family fortress.

More important, however, I see competition.

Risk. “Mia knows we stole something at Dash’s wedding,” I recap.

Deonte winces, grimly remembering the moment Mia nearly collapsed our house of cards with her interference.

“She’ll be onto us here even if she doesn’t have her own agenda—which she definitely does.

Tom’s job is to keep her out of our way. ”

Jackson huffs derisively. “Let me guess,” he poses. “You’re going to flirt with her so much she’s too busy swooning to stop us?”

Tom smirks.

“I might,” he says.

Jackson grimaces. “That feels immoral.”

“Whatever you say, Pawn.”

“Jackson, Tom can flirt with whomever he wants,” I interject.

“I certainly can and do,” Tom says, pleased.