Stealing from her rich family was supposed to be a fun winter getaway for teen mastermind Olivia Owens, but when a rival thief, a love triangle, and a murder suspect interfere, she’ll have to decide how far she’s willing to go for the vault full of gold—and for the boy she loves.
When teen heiress and heist leader Olivia Owens receives an invitation for her cold-hearted grandmother’s seventieth birthday at the family’s inherited Swiss castle, only one thing entices her to accept: the vault full of gold waiting in the castle’s frigid dungeons. Assembling her old crew of high school criminals, now including her boyfriend Jackson, Olivia feels more prepared than ever for grand theft.
But not everything is what it seems when they arrive. For starters, the reunion turns out to be less of a party and more of a wake. Her grandmother announces that she’s dying … and plans to be buried with her fortune. Suddenly the entire greedy Owens clan turns their eyes toward Olivia’s target. It’s hard enough to steal something everyone’s looking at, but an old backstabber, a new suitor, and an uninvited guest add fuel to the fire until Olivia is desperately trying to hold the pieces of her plan—and her crew—together.
As Olivia faces her family’s dark legacy of deceit, grift, and maybe even murder, she's forced to weigh how deeply she loves Jackson with how her love might destroy him. She didn’t choose her family, but now she has to choose—who she loves, who she trusts, and who she’s willing to risk to get what she wants. In a family of thieves, this might cost her everything.
Perfect for fans of… ★ The Inheritance Games ★ Jessica Goodman ★ Knives Out ★ Oceans 11 ★ Succession ★ Gossip Girl
Don’t miss the revenge heist that started it all: Heiress Takes All.
Praise for Heiress Takes All
"A perfectly delicious tale of greed, family, vengeance, and revenge." —Kathleen Glasgow, New York Times bestselling author of Girl in Pieces and The Agathas
“Riveting, swoony, and so much fun.” —Jessica Goodman, New York Times bestselling author of The Legacies and The Counselors
“An edge-of-your-seat thrill ride the whole way through.” —Rachel Griffin, New York Times bestselling author of Bring Me Your Midnight
Publisher:
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Print pages:
352
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
I watch the snowcapped mountains, the frozen lakes, the white sky, from the window seat of the nicest luxury train in Europe. We’re slicing through the Swiss mountains, fifty-four minutes from our destination.
The train was my idea. The forty-kilometer-per-hour “scenic” pace was not. I would have opted for the fastest possible route, obviously. Opposite me, Jackson Roese—my boyfriend, selector of our snowy route—gazes from the window, enchanted.
Of course he looks as if he’s five years old, watching Frozen for the first time. Jackson has done nothing except hype this train ride ever since we landed in Switzerland on Christmas Eve two days ago.
It’ll be romantic! he insisted while I organized our itinerary in my room two months ago.
We’re not going to Switzerland for the romance, I reminded him.
Jackson had grinned.
Surely a mastermind like you can fit a little romance into the plan, he’d said.
Unfair. Entirely unfair. Insinuating my qualifications were lacking if they could not fit some swoon into our Swiss excursion? Unjust. I would have called him on his underhanded negotiating if underhanded negotiating wasn’t my own specialty.
Whether it was Jackson’s pointed persuasion, or the fact he was wearing the white cable-knit sweater he knows makes him look like a high-school James Bond, or just the fact that I notoriously have a weakness for letting Jackson Roese’s temptations into my heart, I relented.
With the winter wonderland passing us outside, I’m glad I did. It’s just the effect Jackson has on me. No matter how unpragmatic, I welcome my weakness for him.
How could I ever feel otherwise? Jackson Roese has loved me no matter where I once lived or live now, no matter who my father is, no matter how shattered he found the pitiful new girl he embraced in the halls of East Coventry High.
He loved me despite the vengeance he found in the heart I’d entrusted to him. Despite how insecurity and my past set my suspicions on him.
He loved me even though I spent the past year planning multiple thefts of millions of dollars from my own family.
Millions are nothing. The heart of the guy next to me is the greatest score I’ve ever stolen.
We’re in the main car, which, I have to say, is lovely—shining wood panels and seats of velvety dark green. I idly catalog the passengers around us while Jackson watches the scenery.
He pulls his eyes from the large windows to me, finding me looking at him. I smile, unembarrassed. He blushes delightfully.
It’s sweet. Swiss-chocolate sweet. Wedding-cake sweet. Jackson sweet.
He nudges my foot with the heavy sole of his Timberland. “Olivia. Look,” he presses playfully, nodding to the window. “You’re not admiring the view. You should get your money’s worth.”
Once more, I find myself grinning. Jackson Roese steals grins out of me like I steal fortunes. My money’s worth. Jackson’s reminder is not misplaced. The luxury train wasn’t cheap.
Nothing I couldn’t afford, though. Heisting a fortune from your own father at his wedding does make a few things easier. Easier like no more nervous chest pains. Easier like knowing I have enough for my entire college tuition.
Easier like waking up in the house my mom bought with the heist money. The farmhouse-style home in Coventry offers her enough natural light to set up her easel in the living room. Even more important, I know she’s spent her last night on the interstate driving exhaustedly between multiple jobs.
Vengeance was sweet. Wedding-cake sweet.
But my mom’s happiness? Priceless. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness either had none or way too much.
Even with our living expenses covered, my last heist left us enough to enjoy some liberties on this Switzerland trip, like the train carriage and a weeklong stay for my mom in Bern. The spa I’d booked as her Christmas gift is supposedly one of the world’s finest, or so said the lengthy recommendations message I’d gotten from Tom, replete with several listicles.
I don’t let my eyes leave Jackson. “I’m enjoying the view plenty,” I reply, my voice low with promise.
He doesn’t blush this time. It’s a shame.
“You’re very charming when you’re nervous,” he remarks. His eyes sparkle like the snowbanks, except way more distracting.
Not just distracting. Dazzling.
“I’m sure I am, but I’m not nervous,” I reply.
Jackson examines me. He props his foot up on his knee, leg crooked, looking like he owns this train. His curl of brown hair is defiantly boyish no matter his expression, which right now has softened into inquisitive concern.
“You’re not? Really? I know you have to be the fearless leader when everyone gets here, but I’m different,” he says gently. “You can be real with me.”
“I’m not nervous,” I reply. “I feel… great, actually. Better than I have in months.”
It’s not just the truth. It’s the understatement of the year. The tip of the iceberg, if I dare permit the fittingly frosty metaphor.
While I love Jackson and I’m immeasurably happy my mom is doing well, ordinary life has left me unsettled since the wedding heist. With “The Plan” more or less executed, I’d returned to East Coventry High. I’d gone to class. I’d learned French and Physics in gray classrooms with humming fluorescents. I’d written personal statements. I’d taken the SAT.
Nothing—not one moment—felt like seeing the look in my father’s eyes when he realized I’d claimed his empire for my own.
Did my own heist steal something from me? Normalcy? Contentment with the ordinary?
Or did it give me something? Purpose. Hunger. The pursuit of legacy.
I don’t know yet.
I just know it’s made the past few months quietly exasperating. Only the prospect of this trip—and the plan I am about to set in motion—kept me from screaming in the middle of college fairs and timed writings. I’ve counted down the days to this one, inscribed the date with imaginary heavy lettering in the calendar of my heart. Olivia’s second heist starts now.
“How about you? Nervous?” I return Jackson’s question to him.
His smirk reminds me that Jackson Roese isn’t just sweet. “Me? Nervous? You know me better than that, new girl.”
He winks. Combined with the smirk, it’s mercenary. Ruthless.
I hold his diamond gaze, sharp and precious. “Once we got on this train, our vacation ended,” I remind him. “We’re officially on the job. You can call me King now,” I say, invoking my heist code name.
With Switzerland’s icy splendor surrounding us, Jackson’s eyes sparkle. In his seat opposite mine in the main compartment, he leans forward, elbows rested on his knees, hands folded in front of him. Close enough to kiss.
“King,” he repeats.
I restrain myself from pulling him to me—barely. Straightening my spine, I hide the shallowness in my lungs.
“I can work with that,” he murmurs.
Into our midst comes the gentle beep of my watch alarm.
I set it hours ago, having meticulously calculated our speed and distance to determine the precise middle of the longest stretch of our frozen passage between stations. Meticulously calculated everything, I should say, except the heated pounding in my chest.
Nevertheless, it’s time. My heart will wait. My heist won’t.
I lean in closer to Jackson—using the movement to eye the rest of the train compartment. “You don’t mind being my pawn, do you, Jackson?” I whisper in his ear.
He exhales. His hand clenches on the armrest. I know exactly what desire looks like on him, and I indulge in his reaction. His nearness, combined with the first step of the plan commencing, has my heart rate hurtling, eagerness clenching in my stomach.
“Never knew this did it for me,” he remarks, his voice low. “I have a feeling I’m going to learn a lot about myself this week.”
Past him, my gaze finds exactly who I’m looking for. Our mark.
The first obstacle to our operation needs to be eliminated. The unwelcome spy my father sent to follow us everywhere.
I’ve noticed him shadowing us nearly since we landed in Switzerland, which gave me a couple days to design the plan we’re initiating now—including putting everyone in position.
I press a kiss to Jackson’s neck. Glancing past our mark, deeper into the train compartment, I find Thomas Pham.
In head-to-toe couture, combined with his perfect haircut and his sharply handsome features, Tom looks right off the runway. The compartment’s lights shine off the polish of his leather shoes.
Our gazes lock for one moment. He registers my wordless cue, and then I drag my eyes from his, ignoring whatever fraught shadow I find in them.
I return to Jackson, finally kissing him deeply. He trembles beneath me—not, I know, just from our proximity.
I withdraw, steeling myself with one shaky exhale.
“Your lessons,” I say, “start now.”
JACKSON DOESN’T HESITATE. HE RISES TO HIS FEET.
When I place my hand in his outstretched palm, he half pulls, half helps me up. I giggle loudly, drawing the notice of the entire compartment. Handsy American teenager—the easiest cover I’ve ever had.
Jackson presses his kiss to my smile, and his hand slides into my back pocket. Laughing, we stumble down the center aisle. I pretend I don’t notice Tom stand from his seat at the other end of the carriage and glide toward us, using Jackson’s and my unabashed display to draw every gaze away from the fashionable figure’s approach.
Rounding my eyes with fake excitement, I gaze up at Jackson. “I think the first-class carriages are private,” I speculate.
We’re earning the impatience of the compartment’s other riders—hmphs from elderly couples, indignant glances from parents with young children. Here on personal travel, I expect, not professional. Not on December 26. Families off to spend an afternoon in the city or continuing on to flights home.
Not us.
Our mark doesn’t react. He continues reading his newspaper, no doubt convinced of his concealment.
He’s probably hoping we’ll steal into a first-class cabin and get caught. It’d make his job easier. Across the table from him, his seat partner sleeps, beanie pulled over his face.
Jackson pretends he’s considering my indecent proposal. My scandalous suggestion looks like the portrait of spontaneity. “Aren’t you worried about getting thrown out?” he finally asks.
I lean closer. Look up with invitation-heavy eyes. Press one hand to his chest, my French manicure tips matching the winter white.
“The risk only makes it better,” I exhale.
Lies and truth. Meeting like strangers in the dark.
Jackson’s smirk re-forms slowly. It’s dangerous what the expression could do to me, honestly.
“What are we waiting for, then?” he asks, his voice humming deep in his chest.
We continue forward until I pretend to stumble with the train’s movement, catching myself on the table of the middle-aged couple seated in front of our mark. When my hand hits the plastic, the man’s wine—one of the expensive miniature bottles of Chasselas or Genevan sparkling wine I’ve noticed everywhere in Switzerland—spills. The man cries out. He stands, shouting irately at me in French.
I chose him perfectly, I compliment myself. He’s snapped at his wife three times since we left Zurich.
“So sorry,” I drawl, careful to look carefree. “Whoops! Clumsy Americans!”
The response, designed only to provoke him further, does. His volume rises. The pink color in his cheeks would have me concerned for his blood pressure if I weren’t pleased with the proceedings. In my periphery, Tom has positioned himself a few rows back, where he waits.
Like clockwork, Jackson intercedes.
“Hey, back up, bro,” he orders. I nearly laugh. Bro? The bullish frat-boy inflection isn’t Jackson. He’s embracing his role the way I did. Playing defensive of his ditzy girlfriend, he steps up to the passenger. “Chill out,” Jackson says. “It was an accident.”
When the passenger redirects his ire to Jackson, Tom moves.
With the eyes of the entire compartment on Jackson and me, he slides up to the man shadowing me, seated just behind the now-drenched Frenchman. Tom drops one shoulder with smooth grace—and deposits something neatly into the coat pocket of our mark.
Perfection.
The moment passes. Jackson, guiding my elbow, withdraws from the yelling husband, who eventually sits down, grumbling ferociously. In the back of the train, Tom’s retaken his seat, eyeing the icy splendor of Switzerland while the train continues cutting a scar in the snow. I walk with Jackson into first class.
We slip into one of the private cabins, where I sit with a view through the half-open door of the compartment we just left. Next to me, Jackson looks exhilarated, his face flushed.
Through the cracked-open door, I watch the plan progress.
Next to my father’s spy, his seat partner starts waking up. The mark panics—for he’s just now recognized Deonte Jones.
While I can’t see Deonte’s face, he’s removed the gray Stone Island beanie he pulled down while he pretended to sleep. I can’t hear their conversation from here, but I’m pleased watching the mark’s frantic replies, until finally the man falls silent. Decision forms on his face.
He rises reluctantly to his feet, and Deonte ushers him forward.
Heading for us.
Only while they advance down the aisle do I notice someone else. Across the aisle from Deonte and my mark’s vacated seats sits a man in a dark, exquisite suit. Nothing flashy, just elegant, modern lines. Under his steel-flecked light hair, his face is neutral, revealing nothing.
His eyes meet mine, shrewd and empty.
Then our door opens, and Deonte pushes the mark inside.
QUINN RHODES—MY FATHER’S FORMER ASSISTANT, THE PUSHOVER who’d once helped hide Dash’s infidelities and whose firing I exploited during the wedding heist—shifts uncomfortably in front of me.
“Quinn,” I say sweetly. “What a coincidence you’re here.”
He frowns. Petulant, he sits in surrender, saying nothing.
Fine.
“How have you been? Still unemployed?” I heap pretend pity on words I’m enjoying very much. “Let me guess. Dash put the word out not to trust you, and then no one would hire you. You had no choice but to come back to him begging for your old job.”
“I’m not his assistant anymore,” Quinn retorts, his voice whiny.
I smile, delighted to have levered the reply out of him. Of course professional insecurity was his weakness. “What… are you exactly?” I inquire. “The adult man my father hired to spy on his teenage daughter?”
He grimaces. “Don’t make it sound like that.”
With wide, innocent eyes, I look from Quinn to Deonte. “Did I say anything untrue?” I ask.
“It’s a bad look, dude,” Deonte concurs.
Frustrated, Quinn gestures indignantly in my direction. “I wouldn’t even have to be here if you just spoke to your father,” he protests. “He only wants to make sure you’re going to uphold your end of the deal.”
Our deal. It’s putting it… politely. Technically, I blackmailed my father. When I left my father’s wedding with his money, our agreement involved my promising not to reveal Dash’s embezzlement from the Owens family trust. While we no longer speak, for obvious reasons, my father has realized I’m headed into the midst of the very people I pledged not to inform. His family, who he’s been stealing from.
Unable to speak to me directly, he’s resorted to the pathetic measure of having me followed.
Which doesn’t work for me. While I’m executing this week’s heist, I won’t have my father’s watchman reporting everything I’m doing home to Rhode Island.
However, Quinn’s confession has surprised me. “Really?” I inquire. “That’s it? Dash isn’t out for some revenge of his own? Sending you here so you can spy on me?”
I mean, honestly, I chide the imaginary Dash in my head. No vengeful countermove for me stealing your money? It’s like we’re not even related.
Quinn shrugs. “Can’t get caught if you don’t do anything wrong,” he points out.
Now I have to smile.
“Quinn,” I say, “as you’re about to learn, that’s very not true.”
Confusion descends over my father’s assistant or spy or whatever he is. He does not have the chance to clarify what I mean. Instead, knocking sounds on our door, urgent and demanding. And right on time.
“Whoops,” Quinn says to me, weakly confrontational. “Shouldn’t sneak into places you don’t belong, Olivia.”
I don’t reply. I don’t have to. In seconds, I’m going to ruin this guy’s day for the second time.
Deonte opens the cabin door, revealing an attendant, a security officer—and Kevin Webber.
He’s dressed in indulgently showy winter wear, brands on display as if they sponsor him. The son of my father’s horrid lawyer, Kevin Webber has worn Polo and Prada his entire life. On his boyish features is something uncommon for the notoriously difficult-to-discourage Kevin Webber—utter dismay.
“Search him,” Kevin demands plaintively.
He points at Quinn, who watches these proceedings openly perplexed.
“It’s a gold Panerai Luminor, monogrammed with Kevin Webber,” Kevin complains.
The security officer reaches forward.
“What is going on here?” Quinn demands, startled. He stands from his seat. “You can’t just search me.”
The security man regards him with dispassionate impatience. “Very well,” he replies in French-accented English. “We will have to request you to remain on the train until police can search you, sir.”
Quinn’s mouth falls open. I understand his dismay—he was really hoping I would end up expelled from the first-class cabin, and instead security has descended on… him.
Then defensiveness flares in Quinn, the perfect imitation of my father’s ugliest moods. It’s no surprise. People like Quinn Rhodes, in his wrinkled office shirt under his coat, spending his December 26 on his employer’s wretched whims, will always look to role models for their own worst instincts.
“I will not be missing my stop. This is ridiculous,” he replies. “I don’t even know what I’m being accused of, but fine. Search me now if you must.”
The security officer obliges. He pats down Quinn. He reaches into Quinn’s front coat pocket—
And while the entire group looks on, he produces a gold watch.
It shines under the cabin lights. The officer reads from the inscription. “Kevin George Washington Webber.”
“That’s me!” Kevin cries out.
I force myself not to smile. Kevin is vying for the Oscar with his performance.
Instead, I’ll admit, he has emerged as the MVP of our kickoff sting operation. The Panerai Luminor the inspector holds, gaudy in gold, is real, and genuinely valuable. Kevin’s willingness to part even momentarily with the forty-grand watch was nothing short of admirable. Of course, in the months since the wedding heist forged my unlikely friendship with Kevin Webber, I’ve found he always gives everything he has, even to extracurricular activities of questionable legality.
Quinn’s eyes pop. In the instant of realization, his gaze flashes to me. “You—they—set me up,” he gasps. “These teenagers don’t even have tickets for this carriage. They planted this on me.”
In reply, Jackson reaches into his own coat pocket.
He produces, for the attendant’s inspection, four first-class tickets for this very cabin. The ones we purchased simultaneously with our seats for the main compartment, knowing exactly where our operation needed to start—and where it needed to end.
“I’m afraid you’re the one who shouldn’t be here, Quinn,” I say while the inspector grasps Quinn’s upper arm with unambiguous force. “I wonder, do you get one phone call here in Switzerland? Do you think my dad will pick up?”
Quinn’s mouth moves noiselessly. The officer starts hauling him from the cabin.
“Have a nice New Year’s,” I say softly.
The security man will escort the hapless Mr. Rhodes to some detention spot on board and, when we reach our next station, likely to some municipal Swiss jail. I’m sure my father will make his legal problems disappear eventually, but Quinn will remain safely out of my affairs for the rest of the week.
“We’re very sorry, Miss Owens,” the attendant promises me. “Perhaps complimentary beverages to apologize for this situation?”
I smile. I feel… like myself. Relaxed and excited at once, reveling in the rush of a job well done.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say.
The attendant nods and leaves us. As he does, I notice the dark-suited man watching us through the still-open door. As if his gaze hasn’t shifted from our cabin once. Now I inscribe him into my memory, filing the fineries of his appearance away for future reference. Another spy? I can’t act unless I know for sure.
Deonte takes a seat in our compartment following Quinn’s departure. The coat covering his round shoulders is perfectly fitted, understatedly stylish, and undoubtedly expensive. It’s not couture like mine, though. Deonte doesn’t spend lavishly on himself.
If this week goes well, maybe he will.
“Dude!” Kevin drops down next to Deonte. “I was waving to you on the platform!”
“I saw,” Deonte replies.
Kevin kicks out his legs haphazardly. “Cold,” he comments to Deonte while he sets to refastening his gold watch. “Makes a guy wonder if we’re even friends.”
“The plan was to meet inside the train, Bishop,” Deonte replies patiently.
Kevin sits up, pleased. “So you’re saying it wasn’t personal,” he clarifies. “We are friends.”
Deonte rolls his eyes with emphatic grandeur, then raises his fist to bump with Kevin, who looks like Santa Claus himself has declared Kevin was very, very good this year.
I don’t permit myself to smile, even though I kind of want to. Jackson does. It’s the weird effect of Kevin, I’ve noticed. While unbearably irritating, he manages to be inexplicably lovable. It’s part of why he’s here. It could even make him my secret weapon. He’s not here for the fortune. He doesn’t need it. He’s here for something more powerful and perplexing—us.
“Rook,” I greet Deonte.
“King,” he returns.
Then—only then—does Deonte smile, finally playful. Excited, even. I hope.
Not for the same reasons I am, no doubt. I don’t presume anyone matches me in the psychological-problems department. Deonte doesn’t love larceny the way I do. He has his own important motives, which is enough for me. I don’t need excitement. Only excellence.
“Well, well. It’s a party.”
The voice from the doorway is velvet. The edge is diamond sharp.
Into our midst strides Thomas Pham, who in fact had once explained to me he seeks never to walk, only to stride. From his entrance, I would say he’s practiced, except I know he doesn’t need to. Thomas Pham—thespian extraordinaire, more than willing to lend talents honed on the stage to my schemes—steals the spotlight wherever he goes.
Of each of us, I suspect the wedding heist money has changed Tom the least. Everyone wants money. Tom saunters and schmoozes as if he were meant for it.
His eyes fall on Jackson.
“Not bad for your first con, Jimbo,” he comments, intending patronization, and continuing in his new, very intentional pattern of getting Jackson’s name wrong. Emphasizing Jackson’s outsider status, in more ways than one. While I’m obviously closer with Jackson, I’ve known Tom longer. He comes from Berkshire. From my old life. From the luxury he still enjoys, and the luxury he insists I’m chasing in the guise of vengeance. The wealth. The power.
Combined with how Jackson only wound up involved in the wedding heist incidentally, while Tom was one of my closest collaborators—well, Tom won’t let me forget any of it.
New guy, he’s calling Jackson with every wrong name. It’s no expression of endearment.
Now Jackson’s expression matches the window view in unforgiving frost. He holds Tom’s dark gaze.
“Pawn,” he corrects without emotion.
I credit him for the response. Occupying the high road and reminding Tom that no matter what he’s code-named, I did invite Jackson into the heist, just like I invited him into my heart.
Tom smiles without warmth. “Not certain I’d advertise that nickname,” he comments.
“Olivia likes it,” Jackson replies.
I press my lips together, realizing immediately how much of a headache they’re going to cause me. In the end, it’s the piece of myself I recognize in Thomas Pham most—the jealousy. The want. Love looks good on someone like Jackson. Envy looks good on someone like Tom.
The tension in the small carriage doesn’t simmer for long, though. The strained silence ends when one of the most badass girls I have ever seen enters.
Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun. Designer sunglasses shield her eyes from the uncompromising dazzle of sun on ice. Her black turtleneck rises out of the collar of her black leather jacket. She looks like she’s on her way from the runway to the boardroom. She looks like music should play with every entrance she makes.
I expected no less.
“Crew,” I say proudly, pleased with the distraction, “meet Grace Pham.” I pause. “You may call her Queen.”
UNDERSTANDABLY, EVERY EYE IN THE COMPARTMENT EXCEPT TOM’S whips to me.
While Grace sits down next to Tom, Deonte straightens up. I can tell I’ve perturbed him, which is not easy.
“Where’s Abigail?” he demands.
While Jackson says nothing, his stare holds me. He doesn’t need words to echo Deonte’s question.
“I assume in Rhode Island,” I reply evenly. “Although I suppose she could be anywhere.”
“She’s… not coming?” Kevin has the honesty to look disappointed.
“I haven’t spoken to her since the wedding,” I say, impatient. I guess I expected the crew would recognize Abigail’s absence from our goddamn group chat would imply her absence from our international heist. How would I even reach my sister, an expert hacker who never gave me her real contact information? “She betrayed us on the last job,” I remind everyone.
“I mean, I did, too, and I’m here,” Kevin points out.
I look at him. “Do you really want to remind us of that?”
Kevin shrinks in his seat.
“What a warm welcome.” Grace finally speaks up. Her voice is polite but chilly. I wish I couldn’t characterize the entire vibe in our compartment the same way.
Jackson, of course, recovers first. He extends his hand. “Sorry, Grace. I’m Jackson,” he says with the warmth Grace invoked ironically. “Jackson Roese.”
While they shake hands, Grace looking somewhat more enthusiastic, my phone lights up. I read my mom’s text on my lock screen.
You sure you don’t want to come back to Bern? There’s a spa with a view of the river.
Then the snowflake emoji. Then the sunset emoji. Then the Christmas tree emoji. I smile, until her next message follows.
I promise it’s better than where you’re heading.
Outside our pristine window, we’re nearing our destination, the landscape growing familiar. I’ve visited Switzerland before, when I lived my old life. Everything glistened with invitation, as if the world were made just for five-year-old me. The diamonds outside didn’t need stealing—they were mine from the start.
What wasn’t, then?
Before my grandmother cut us off. Before my father abandoned me. Before I knew what it meant to be an Owens.
Grace smiles, her teeth white and perfect. “I assure you,” she says, “you won’t miss Abigail.”
With every word, it’s easier to recognize Tom’s likeness to the girl I’ve met only over one short FaceTime after my customary encrypted emails and whose qualifications Knight vouched for. Siblings cut from the same silk.
I chew the inside of my cheek, weighing my reply to my mom.
Volenvell Castle has nice views too.
Mom’s reply is immediate.
I’m referring to the number of Owens family members you’ll be trapped with.
I knew what my mom meant. I don’t disagree. While I would never show the weakness to my crew, the number of my extended family members waiting at my grandmother’s inherited castle home, hopefully unaware spectators to my plans, does make me uneasy. Pulling off my wedding heist around innocent influencers and out-of-it congresspeople was easy enough. The Owens family, however? If there’s one group ever watchful for deception or disloyalty, it’s my dad’s relatives.
In my guarded heart, I know their savvy is not the only reason I’m dreading the week spent in their company. They remind me, like Volenvell Castle perched imposingly on the mountaintop, of my old life.
First-class flights, young Olivia fending off stomachaches with Sprite sipped from champagne glasses. Dreaded evenings with my cousins outside the grown-ups’ purview, when I hoped they would ignore me instead of doing worse. My mom’s smile like porcelain stretched over steel during dinner, followed by parental fighting I could hear from my four-poster down the hall.
Just because I have the wedding’s practice in fighting off emotions while executing plans doesn’t mean it’s not hard.
“Obviously, Grace is my sister,” Tom summarizes.
“Double the Phams, double the fun,” Kevin enthuses. He eyes the newcomer with earnest curiosity. “You’re not in our year, right? I think I remember you from Berkshire.”
I know Kevin Webber from the vaunted halls of the same prep school where I met Tom.
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