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Vivienne’s mother descended upon her like a vulture the very moment she entered the party.

“You’re late,” she whispered, grabbing hold of Vivienne’s wrist. “He’s furious.”

Vivienne hardly managed to sneak in a backward glance before she was whisked off into the crowd. She caught a fleeting glimpse of Thomas staring across the room at her. Next to him, a woman in a sleek black dress and a too-tight bun harangued him into depositing his phone into the collection basket. They shared a look—one, single meaningful glance that she felt in her marrow—and then he was gone, swallowed up in the glittering crush of bodies.

A little dizzy, she let her mother lead her deeper into the house, careless of where they were going. Away from the crowd. Away from the lights. Down the long, dark artery of a windowed hall, where the curtains blew in off the veranda on a phantom breeze. The air smelled like ozone, pungent with a storm. They didn’t stop. They kept going, moving quickly enough to outpace the devil, her mother’s perfectly manicured nails biting into her forearm.

“There’s a reporter,” she hissed as they picked their way down a shallow set of steps. “He’s sniffing around. Asking questions. Philip is in a state. I’ve never seen him so angry.”

Vivienne wasn’t listening. She felt as light as a feather. Sparkling and effervescent—as though without a tether she might lift up off the ground and go tumbling skyward.

“You’ll have to handle it,” said her mother urgently. “The way you do.”

Distantly, Vivienne registered that her mother was saying something horrible. Something wretched. Whatever it was, it didn’t register. She couldn’t think of anything but the way Thomas had kissed her. Like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like she’d wanted him to, that day he’d come home and found her waiting in his room.

Vivienne had been kissed before, but never like that. She doubted anyone would ever kiss her that way again. Not if she lived to be a thousand. She felt as though she’d been flung clean outside of herself—forced to watch the evening unfold from somewhere apart from her body. Only this time, she wasn’t trapped on the other side of the glass.

This time, she was in the clouds.

“Vivienne!”

The sound of her mother barking her name brought her plummeting back down to earth. The real world careened into focus with razor-sharp clarity. They stood in the Turners’ tiled kitchen, baked gold beneath the warm light of a drum lamp. From the opposite side of the house, there came the intermittent sounds of revelry. Wild bursts of laughter. Airy snatches of music. The sharp clink of cutlery.

And beneath it, like a whisper, were the first faint rumbles of thunder.

In front of Vivienne, her mother swayed ever so slightly in her heels. She wasn’t quite drunk, but she was close to it. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips stained merlot red. She looked thinner than ever, skin drawn facelift-tight, so that shadows rendered her skeletal in the gloom.

Irritated, she asked, “Have you listened to a thing I’ve said?”

Vivienne shook her head. On the counter, the faucet began to drip. Water plink-plunk-plink ed into the wide farmhouse sink as her mother reached into her handbag. Fishing through the contents, she procured a crisp white handkerchief.

“Clean yourself up. You’ve made a mess of your lipstick.”

Plink. Plink. The sound was maddening. When Vivienne didn’t take the kerchief, her mother took it upon herself to tidy her, leaning in and dabbing at the corners of Vivienne’s mouth. Rearing back, Vivienne swiped at her hand like an alley cat.

“Vivienne, really ,” cried her mother, nursing a scrape. “What’s gotten into you? It’s like you don’t even care what happens to us. Tonight means everything to Philip. Everything. His entire firm is at risk, and you’re off dallying with the help.”

The accusation was like being doused in cold water. Whatever showed on her face must have been obvious, because her mother let out a laugh. It was high and thin, no humor in it at all.

“Did you think you were being subtle? You’ve been pining after that boy for weeks.”

I haven’t been—

“It’s beneath you, Vivienne,” snapped her mother, before she could finish. “More than that—it’s not fair to him. Do you remember what happened to Mikhail? How horribly he died?”

Don’t , she signed. The water dripped faster. Don’t talk about him.

“Someone has to.” Her mother’s voice came out in a hiss. “Someone has to remind you what you are.”

The words were a gunshot, through and through. An old metallic bitterness seeped out from the wound. She thought of coming home Other—of watching her formerly doting mother pull slowly away. Thought of tiptoeing to her bedroom door during sleepless midnights and finding it locked. No chance of being rocked or held. No lullabies, no loving touch.

I’m your daughter , she signed, dropping her hand into the crook of her forearm. Her mother stared at the cradle of her arms, some of her anger allaying. In its place crept grief, cold and untouchable.

“That’s right,” she said softly. “You’re a Miller. And Miller girls are survivors. So, you’ll clean up your face, you’ll get back out there, and you’ll do whatever it takes.”

In the sink, the water ran freely. The basin was nearly full. Vivienne’s mother held the handkerchief between them.

“Take it,” she said. “When Philip comes looking for you, I expect you to cooperate.”

Vivienne snatched the napkin and stuffed it into her dress. Rubbing her palm across her face, she made further ruin of her lipstick, smearing the stain up to her cheeks in a garish joker’s grin.

Her mother didn’t bother to chastise her. She’d made her point. She knew Vivienne would play her part perfectly when the time came. She always did. It was a little bit funny. Even when she wasn’t the girl in the mirror, she was still in a cage. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry, laugh, or scream. Perhaps some combination of the three. She settled for leaving without a goodbye, her curls mussed and her makeup ruined.

Gone was the effervescence that fizzed through her veins. Gone was the quiet euphoria burning bright as a flame. She was firmly rooted to the ground, her throat pinched shut, her chest a gaping hollow. Behind her, the water splashed to the floor.

So this was how it was to begin—tonight’s unraveling.

“And, darling,” called her mother, just before she escaped into the hall. “Thomas Walsh is here to do a job. Let him do it, and then leave him alone. It’s the kindest thing you can do.”

Vivienne meant to walk away with her head held high. Instead, she fled.

She made it as far as the hallway before the tears found her. Collapsing into a shallow alcove, she tugged the napkin loose and set to cleaning her face, scrubbing her cheeks until they stung. A breeze drifted through the open windows, rustling her gown. Outside in the courtyard, the party unfolded beneath a glittering web of tea lights. The sight of the crowd was broken up by a neat row of crabapple trees. The wind picked up, silvering the leaves in their branches.

Beneath the soft symphony of strings, she heard a single footfall. She glanced up, hurriedly dashing tears from her cheeks, and caught sight of Thomas in the wide open doors. He looked deceptively casual with his jacket unbuttoned and his hands in his pockets, but there was a tightness in the way he held himself. An anticipation. The lights of the party streamed in behind him, gilding his profile in gauzy streaks of gold, and she thought, faintly, that he’d never looked more perfect than this.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, his voice unconvincingly mild. He drew closer, quietly cataloging her as he approached. “You okay?”

Fine , she signed.

“You’re lying.”

She met his gaze, startled. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. It would rain soon, though a passing summer storm was the least of the Turners’ concerns. Their party was already going to be ruined. She’d seen to that.

“It’s because of me,” guessed Thomas. “I overstepped.”

She pinched her fingers. No.

Lightning lit the hallway white just as he came to a stop before her. “No?”

It’s not you , she added. You’re perfect.

“Perfect?” His cheek dimpled and he mimicked the sign, touching his index fingers to his thumbs. “That’s a pretty big compliment coming from you, Miss Farrow.”

Don’t tease me. It’s not nice.

“You want me to be nice to you?”

His gaze bored into her, dark and expectant. Her mother’s voice pinwheeled through her head. Leave him alone. Leave him alone.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she signed, I want you to kiss me again.

The smile slipped off his face. He looked suddenly as solemn as she’d ever seen him. For a single, horrible second, she thought he’d refuse. Thought he’d fall back on decency—pretend like this unbearable thing coiling between them was strictly professional.

Somewhere in the courtyard, an unseen string quartet played the final notes of Tchaikovsky’s “Song Without Words.” The guests burst into appreciative applause. Buried in the dark of the alcove, Thomas slid his hands from his pockets and reached for her, skimming his fingertips along the edge of her jaw. A shiver ran through her at his touch. She leaned into it, her heart thumping hard.

It was selfish of her.

She was only going to hurt him.

A new song began just as Thomas drew her face up to his. Their eyes met and held. The lone wail of a violin disseminated through the courtyard, the gallery, her bones. She felt a thousand things at once, suffused with a weightlessness she knew she didn’t deserve.

This time, when he leaned in and kissed her, it was soft. There was no urgency in it. His mouth grazed over hers as though he was mapping out the lines of her. Charting the hills of her lips, the valley of her smile. There was something dangerous about the way he took his time. It made her believe in things that weren’t true. Made her feel as though this moment—this stolen, secret pocket of perfection—might last forever.

It didn’t, of course. He pulled away before she was ready, his breath stitching along her jaw. The air between them crackled with electricity. Or maybe that was the storm. The sky was alive, the leaves whipping on the trees.

“Like that?” His voice came out hoarse.

She nodded, savoring the feel of his thumbs tracing her jaw. She’d never been held like this before—like she was brittle primrose, and not deadly nightshade. Something worth tending, and not something you tore up out of the earth with gloves. Emboldened, she rose onto her toes and kissed him again.

In the back of her mind, guilt ticked like a clock. Any minute now, Reed would set her plan into motion. It was remarkably simple, as far as kidnappings went. A dozen other pledges were waiting in the wings, paintball guns at the ready. When Reed gave the signal, they’d cut the power. They’d raid the dance floor. They’d raise hell.

By the time the lights came back on, Vivienne would be gone.

There was a chance—a possibility, though she hated to admit it—that she’d acted rashly. It was just that she’d been so rattled by the sight of Bryce Donahue dying at her feet, so angry at her stepfather for using her and using her and using her. When Thomas spurned her kiss, she’d never felt more alone. More humiliated .

Jesse Grayson was the only one who could fix it. He knew all the right ways to carve a person open. Knew how to make her new again, how to cut her up into someone worth loving.

She just had to get away. To disappear. She’d been so certain of it.

She wasn’t certain anymore. Not with Thomas’s hands at her waist, his mouth at her throat. Distantly, she was aware of the courtyard full of guests just a few feet away. Someone might stumble upon them any minute. Thomas didn’t seem to care. He wedged her deeper into the alcove, his fingers scoring her hips just as his tie came loose in her hands.

There was another rumble of thunder, this time directly overhead. The house shook upon its foundation. It felt as though it was trembling with anticipation. They came up for air, breaking apart as the first of the rain began to fall. Out in the courtyard, a woman screamed. Laughter followed, wanton and careless.

“Hey.” Thomas ducked down, catching her eye. “Are you all right?”

Her heart gave a horrible thump. Fine.

He wasn’t convinced. His mouth thinned into a frown. “Your eyes. They’re—”

She tugged herself out of his grasp before he could finish. She didn’t want him to say it. Didn’t want him to notice the parts of her that weren’t right. He might spurn her a second time, and she didn’t think she could take it. Not now that she knew what it felt like to be held by him. The patter of rain against flagstone set her teeth on edge. It reminded her of the dripping sink, the slow pooling of water underfoot.

She needed to find Reed. She needed to ask him to call it off—to tell him she wasn’t ready. She needed to get a better grip on herself before she became completely untethered.

I need a minute , she signed. Bathroom.

“Okay.” Worry flinted his gaze. “Want me to walk with you?”

No. Stay. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. I’ll find you after.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. I’ll be quick. Out in the courtyard, several guests began to dash for cover. It wouldn’t be long before the hallway was flooded with people. On a whim, she added, Meet me at the pool house.

His eyes shone in the lamplight. “When?”

Fifteen minutes.

That’s all she needed. Fifteen minutes, to find Reed and undo all that she’d done. To tuck the ugliest parts of herself neatly back into their box. The first of the guests tumbled, wine-drunk and giggling, into the gallery, their jackets over their heads, their gowns soaked through.

“I’ll be there,” Thomas swore.

She gave him a small smile, easing out from the alcove before they could be seen. The crowd had doubled in size, guests clustering by the open windows to watch the storm. She elbowed her way through the glittering crush, searching each face for signs of Reed.

He wasn’t on the terrace. Nor was he in the lounge, where couples gathered in chattering droves. There was no sign of him in the spacious study crowded with men in suits, or the first-floor bathrooms where a line had begun to form, or the smoky billiards room where a boy she’d gone to high school with held out a pool stick and invited her to break.

She was halfway to the library when Philip cornered her. And he wasn’t alone.

“There you are,” he boomed, prying an unlit cigar from his teeth. “You’ve had us all on quite the wild-goose chase.”

Her stepfather’s jacket was gone, his hair oil dark and matted flat, as though he’d been caught out in the storm with the rest of the party. He was flanked by a wary-looking Thomas and a man Vivienne didn’t recognize.

She flattened down the rumpled front of her dress. Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.

“This fine fellow here is Isaac Shaw,” Philip cut in loudly, speaking before Thomas was able to translate. “He’s from the Daily Talk .”

He said Daily Talk the way one might say bubonic plague , his disgust thinly veiled. Vivienne paid just enough attention to know the gossip rag wasn’t one of the publications her stepfather held in high esteem.

“Shaw here is hoping you’ll grace him with an interview,” he added with a twist of his signet ring. The pale white stone winked nebulously up at her. “Spare a few words for him, if you catch my meaning.”

Vivienne’s stomach pitted. This was what her mother had tried to tell her back in the kitchen: You’ll have to handle it. The way you do.

There was no questioning Philip when he gave an order. And this was indubitably an order, though he’d phrased it as in invitation. It was a bitter reminder, in the face of her momentary lapse. No matter how hard she played at being a girl, at the end of the day she was nothing more than a doll on a music box, forced to turn and turn by the hand that wound her spring.

All hope of finding Reed in time dissolved to mist.

Isaac Shaw looked to be in his midtwenties, with thick black glasses and a wrinkled button-down, a ratted camera strap slung over one shoulder.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“She’s a mute,” explained Philip, chewing on the butt of his cigar. “Or, at least, she pretends to be. You know how capricious these young ladies can be.”

“Ah,” said Shaw, who didn’t seem to know how to respond to that.

Philip thumped Thomas proudly on the back. “Thankfully, Walsh here is an outstanding interpreter. He’ll be happy to mediate any discussion between the two of you. Help you get a quote for your, ah, paper.”

“Excellent,” said Shaw, poking at his glasses. “I was thinking we—”

“It’s terrible business,” cut in Philip, “what happened to Donahue. He was a good kid. Real bright future ahead of him. His father is a client of mine, you know. Has been, since his boy was in diapers. I feel a bit like I’ve lost my own son.”

“Right,” said Shaw, though now he sounded wary. He reached for the library door, pulling it open to reveal the cavernous quiet beyond. “Well, shall we? I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Vivienne glanced up at Thomas and found him already looking over at her, his gaze unreadable, his jaw set. Deep inside her, she felt the thing with teeth arch its back and yawn. A sleeper, slowly waking. A predator, sensing prey.

This was how it always began.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

There never was.

Because Vivienne wasn’t brittle primrose; she was deadly nightshade. Tempting. Toxic. Fatal.

She was going to kill Isaac Shaw.

And Thomas was going to see.