EPILOGUE

EVE

The day that Vincent Blake died—the day Eve found him dead of a second heart attack less than five months after the first—she called nine-one-one. She dealt with the authorities and with the body, and then, that night, she hid herself away in the bowels of the Blake mansion and turned on the television. Numb.

He was my family, and he’s dead. He’s gone. And I’m alone. On the television screen, Avery wasn’t alone. She was being interviewed for the whole world to see.

“I’m here today with Avery Grambs. Heiress. Philanthropist. World changer—and at only nineteen years old. Avery, tell us, what is it like to be in your position at such a young age?”

Each breath burning in her chest, Eve listened to Avery’s reply to that question and the back and forth that followed between the Hawthorne heiress and one of the world’s most beloved media moguls.

“Wouldn’t watch that if I were you.”

Eve turned to Slate, feeling too hollow to be annoyed. “You’re not me,” she said flatly. “You work for me.”

“I keep you alive.”

“As of a few hours ago, I have an entire security team for that,” Eve replied. “Inherited, along with everything else.”

Slate said nothing. He was irritating that way. Eve turned her attention back to the screen—to Avery.

“Why, having been left one of the largest fortunes in the world, would you give almost all of it away?” the interviewer was asking. “Are you a saint?”

“Might as well be,” Eve muttered. “To them.” The Hawthornes.

“If I were a saint,” Avery said on screen, “do you really think I would have kept two billion dollars for myself? Do you understand how much money that is?”

Eve did. Seven times more than Vincent Blake’s fortune. Mine, now. That difference in magnitude didn’t matter to Eve. When you’d grown up with nothing, an empire was an empire. All Avery had over her—really—was the Hawthornes.

Eve tried not to think about Grayson, but not thinking about Grayson Hawthorne was harder some days than others.

Today was one of the days when it was very hard.

“Seriously,” Slate said beside her. “Turn it off.”

Eve almost did, but then Avery said something on screen that stopped her in her tracks.

“Tobias Hawthorne wasn’t a good man, but he had a human side. He loved puzzles and riddles and games. Every Saturday morning, he would present his grandsons with a challenge…”

His grandsons, Eve thought bitterly. But not his granddaughter. She should have grown up at Hawthorne House. The dead billionaire had known about her. She was his only son’s only child. She was the one who’d been betrayed—not the other way around.

All she’d ever done was try to take care of herself.

“If there’s one thing that the Hawthornes have taught me,” Avery said on screen, “it’s that I like a challenge. I love to play.”

“Do you?” Eve murmured, staring bullets at the happy, happy girl who’d stolen the life that should have been hers. “Do you really?”

“Every year,” Avery—perfect, beloved, brilliant Avery—said, “I’ll be hosting a contest with substantial, life-changing prize money. Some years, the game will be open to the general public. Others… well, maybe you’ll find yourself on the receiving end of the world’s most exclusive invitation.”

Avery, in the spotlight.

Avery, calling the shots.

“This game. These puzzles. They’ll be of your making?” the interviewer asked.

Avery, smiling. “I’ll have help.”

Those words—more than any other part of this interview—were blades to Eve’s heart. Because she didn’t have help. Besides Toby, who loved Avery as a daughter, besides Slate, who half despised her, she had no one.

All the money in the world, and still, she had no one.

On the screen, Avery was being asked when the first game would start. She was holding up a gold card. “The game starts right now.”

Eve turned off the television. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, then turned to Slate. Avery wasn’t the only one who liked a challenge. She wasn’t the only one who liked to play.

Vincent Blake was dead. He was gone. Eve wasn’t bound by his honor anymore. She wasn’t bound by anything. “I have a job for you,” she told Slate.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” he advised her, “don’t.”

“Do it,” she told him, “and I’ll give you one of my seals, make you one of my heirs.”

Slate’s expression was never easy to read. He wasn’t easy at all. She liked that about him.

“What do you want me to do?” Slate asked.

“I need you to help me get a little one-on-one chat,” she told him, “with Grayson’s little sister.”

“Gigi?” Slate’s eyes narrowed at her. That she’d gotten any emotional reaction out of him at all was… unusual.

“No.” Eve shook her head. “The other one.” The one who reminded her of Grayson. “I think it’s about time that Savannah Grayson and I had a discussion about her father.”

Eve imagined herself back at the chessboard, across from Avery. No one is letting me win this time, she thought. Avery had her game now.

And Eve had hers.