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Y OU GOTTA CHECK OUT THE ROOM SERVICE MENU,” K EVIN URGES Deonte.

Kevin will spend the week in the Hotel Evelisse, manning our secure external operations center outside of the unsafe walls of Volenvell. While he commutes to the castle for his work with Patisserie Gestault, Deonte will likewise stay in the Evelisse.

Making them roommates. Obviously, Kevin is living his dream.

“Dude,” he remarks to Deonte from the couch. “If we watch one Shrek movie per night, we could be watching Puss in Boots: The Last Wish on New Year’s Eve.”

I smile, not lingering to hear Deonte’s response to this proposal.

We head downstairs, where we withdraw our luggage from the front desk’s storage.

Outside waits a new SUV, which my grandmother commissioned to Volenvell Castle.

She offered for her driver to pick us up from the train station, but I didn’t want him knowing we arrived in town with Kevin and Deonte.

Instead, I told my grandmother Jackson and I wanted to explore Rothbad with Grace and Tom, and for her driver to pick us up outside the convenient landmark of the Evelisse.

Inside the jet-black SUV, the Phams occupy the middle row, while I climb into the back seat with Jackson. The mood in the car is chillier than the air outside as the car pulls away.

We head in the opposite direction of the train station, departing from the cafés, the ski shops, the photography galleries. Snow-covered street corners and houses of lovingly maintained stonemasonry start disappearing, rock faces and frost-covered hills replacing them.

Tom leans forward.

“Mind if I play music?” he asks.

“Whatever you like, sir,” Leonie’s driver intones with a light French accent. “You can connect your device through Bluetooth.”

Tom glances over his shoulder. The knife of his grin glints ominously.

“I have just the playlist,” he says.

I frown, remembering his money-themed first heist playlist. Perfectly fine when McCoy was driving the van.

Now, however? “Tom,” I warn him. “Remember what we talked about.” I hope my indicative tone reminds him of how from this point on, no one can be trusted.

Especially not one of my grandmother’s hired drivers.

Tom says nothing. He only prods his phone until the music hums from the audiophile-quality subwoofers in the SUV.

“Is It Over Now?” has nothing to do with crime or money or heists or other incriminating topics. While I wonder if Tom is being clever with Taylor Swift’s “vault tracks,” I respectfully conclude the connection is not one Leonie’s driver would make. I sigh in relief, letting myself enjoy the melody.

Until Tom twists to eye me. “Good, right? I designed it for you,” he comments.

Instantly, I’m wary. I hope he just means Swiftie-hood, but I know the black-opal gleam in Tom’s gaze does not usually indicate innocent friendliness.

There’s a layer here I’m not perceiving yet, and I hate unperceived layers.

As our car winds upward into the wintry landscape, I reassure myself, remembering Tom does just love fun for fun’s sake, too.

He faces front, bobbing his head to the beat. Grace appears completely uninterested in the music, reading something on her phone—a horror novel, I notice when I glance at her screen.

I dare to unwind. Then the song changes.

When Tom takes us from “Is It Over Now?” to an old song—very old, with schmaltzy orchestral instrumentation and crooned vocals—it’s jarring. I don’t know what he’s thinking until I hear the chorus and recognize the song.

It’s “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.”

Tom hasn’t put together a playlist inspired by our heist. No, this is arguably worse. He’s put together a playlist of breakup songs. For me.

Hoping they’ll inspire me? Or is he just confident that my relationship with Jackson won’t survive the week? I glare at the back of his head.

Tom sings along quietly, his voice highlighting the lyrics. I glance to Jackson, hoping he hasn’t realized what I’ve realized.

He only gazes out the window, thankfully. His preoccupation is understandable. The private road we’re on is curving up the mountainside, putting Volenvell Castle itself in the distance. Perched on the mountaintop, white-dusted stone spires jutting into the gray sky, it doesn’t look inviting.

It looks like it’s waiting. Which is entirely different.

The winding route, not designed for modern cars, forces the SUV to round the switchbacks slowly, extending our confinement with the playlist. Tom’s work continues in fine form to “thank u, next.” No thank u, tom.

The view outside grows colder and colder.

No one speaks. Jackson watches the snow. I watch Jackson, wondering if he’s—oh, I don’t know—regretting visiting Switzerland with his devious girlfriend to venture into the embrace of her vicious family.

We’re nearing the peak when “love is embarrassing” comes on. Jackson pulls his gaze from the scenery.

“That’s enough, Tom,” he says.

I look to him in slow surprise. Realization steals over me. Jackson has known all along what Tom was doing. He was ignoring him on purpose.

I feel at once impressed with him and chagrined for doubting Jackson’s perceptiveness.

It’s poor leadership, honestly. Under-recognition of resources.

I reprimand myself for not remembering Jackson is worth more to the Swiss heist than his looks or white cable-knit sweater, though they do not hurt.

From his intercession in the wedding heist, his command on the field, and every conversation with him every day, I know he’s savvy and observant.

If I undervalue him, I’m doing him and my crew a disservice.

Right now, however, I fear Jackson’s perceptiveness will lead us nowhere good.

Tom grins without warmth. “What? Not an Olivia Rodrigo fan?”

“You don’t even like her like that,” Jackson says.

The her in question is not the singer. Everyone in the SUV knows it. Jackson knows it. Tom, who undoubtedly emphasized the pop star’s first name on purpose, knows it. The driver probably even knows it.

Unsurprisingly, Tom does not retreat from the challenge. He has none of Jackson’s discretion nor his goodness. It’s the frustration of him and—I wish I couldn’t say—his greatest use.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he replies with rarefied warning. “Or how much fun Olivia and I had at the wedding before you came into the picture.”

I shrink into my seat, not knowing how long I can fend off stomach sickness while this conversation winds its own perilous road.

I only hope it doesn’t jump the guardrail and plunge off the next precipice.

If we weren’t on a literal Swiss mountainside, I would probably request the driver let me out here.

It’s fine; I’ll just walk to my family castle.

No such luck. Yes, I made out with Tom—only for revenge on Jackson.

It wasn’t real, even if it was hot. Of course, I filled in Jackson on how my “relationship” with Tom at my father’s wedding was feigned for the plan.

Nevertheless, Jackson did have to see me kissing Tom and enjoying my fake fling with my wedding date.

“Oh, I know you,” Jackson says. “And I know no matter how many breakup songs you play, I’ll be the one in Olivia’s bed all week.”

Embarrassed heat explodes in my cheeks. While I’m very much looking forward to the nights Jackson references, I won’t have them weaponized in a war I don’t want. Especially when I have one very good reason for not wanting infighting—or rather, a vaultful of good reasons.

Not any I can say out loud in front of my grandmother’s driver, however. Even when I’m frustrated, I have to remember everyone is listening.

“ Enough , you two,” I say.

While the interruption earns me their quiet, they continue to hold each other’s glares. It does nothing for the deeply unpleasant vibe in here.

“You know this is why Mia invited you, Tom. You’re playing into her mind games before we’ve even arrived,” I admonish him. We should be outsmarting Mia, not falling for her schemes. She’s using Tom to try to meddle in my week. It’s our cover, but she’s not supposed to succeed .

Tom’s eyes flit to me. Instantly, I recognize something serious in his expression.

“So what if I am?” he replies.

I blink.

In the neutral intensity of Tom’s icy reply, I understand him immediately. This isn’t jealousy. It’s… strategy.

He remembers exactly why Mia invited him, and what she’ll want when we get to Volenvell.

The enjoyment she’ll expect in inviting my “ex” into our—her—family’s cold castle with my “new” boyfriend.

She’ll want to feel as if her plan is working.

As if Tom’s presence is interfering in my relationship with Jackson, distracting me.

As if Jackson and Tom hate each other too much to ever work together.

If we walk in looking like conspirators, Mia’s disappointment might lead to worse. Tom is just selling our story.

And he’s done so in front of a driver who very likely will report everything we’ve said to Mia or my grandmother.

In the opening phase of the wedding heist, I watched Tom change into Thomas , the debonair, disaffected new fling of insipid ex-heiress Olivia Owens. The performance my plan needed.

Now is no different. This isn’t the real Thomas Pham prodding Jackson with pointed playlists. It’s just his favorite character.

Which is the real Tom, I guess, in a way.

When the driver’s eyes return from the rearview mirror to the road, I mouth to Tom, Impressive .

He grins only for me, nothing performed in it now.

I have to return his smile. Of course. Whatever, if anything, he feels for me comes second to his yearning for the fortune hidden in these mountains.

He and I have only ever been pretend. New heist, new continent—the lies we share remain the heart of my friendship with Tom.

Or whatever it is. Friendship. Heist-ship.

I reach for Jackson’s hand, feeling protectiveness in his stiff reciprocation. His jaw set, he watches the mountains with redoubled determination. He has not realized what I have, and understandably, he’s pissed.

Which is perfect. He’s no actor, unlike Knight. Jackson will play his part flawlessly if he doesn’t know he’s performing.

He doesn’t need to hurt, though. Even in the midst of Tom’s deceptive dramatics, I owe Jackson real loyalty. Real love. “Just ignore him, babe,” I implore. “For me?”

Jackson does the exact opposite. In wordless reply, he looks at Tom. His expression matches the views outside. Frigid stone.

With my other hand, I reach for Jackson’s jawline. My grip firm, I pull his chin, drawing his face to mine. He resists, but I keep his eyes on me. His brown irises flicker with flashes of ire.

“It’ll be just us soon,” I whisper, leaning closer to him.

Like we’re the only people on the mountainside, I kiss him, pressing my lips slowly to his.

While I intend to practice dissimulation for the week to come, I won’t with Jackson.

Pretending with him nearly destroyed me during the wedding heist—pretending I was over him, pretending I wanted someone else, pretending Jackson was no one to me.

I need him to understand what I’m saying now is honest.

I guess my penchant for international crime has not entirely erased his faith in me. He softens into my touch. He kisses me back, sinking into it as he always does. Like he can’t get close enough. Like he wants me 100 percent. When we part, he keeps my fingers entwined with his.

I face front, finding Tom is no longer watching me. He’s looking at his phone, uninterested. Almost too uninterested, honestly.

“God, I miss high school.” Grace speaks up. “So messy.”

“Glad you’re entertained,” Jackson replies.

“Me too,” Grace emphasizes. “I was worried this week would be dull.”

Right on cue, the car levels out. We’ve finished our Alpine ascent.

The road widens into the driveway hewn from the rocks. Nothing flourishes here, leaving a landscape of snow and stone. It’s as if we’ve entered a new world. My grandmother’s world. Mine, once.

Mine again, once I’ve stolen it for myself.

The car rounds the next curve. Everyone falls silent as Volenvell Castle looms in front of us.