Twenty-Four
TOM WAITS FOR ME IN FRONT OF THE FRENCH DOORS LEADING TO the deck. His back is silhouetted against the glass.
He turns when he hears my footsteps. “Hello, date,” he says, his voice full of the smile dancing over his features. “Ready to steal the show?”
I find myself smirking in return. As I recompose myself from the Maureen episode, Knight’s mischievous cheer is exactly what I need. I put my hand on his arm, and we exit out the elegant doors.
The champagne hour is winding down. Guests have enjoyed themselves—I notice glassier eyes, pinker cheeks, louder laughter. Only the younger contingent, the social media stars in flashy outfits, look bored.
They won’t have long to wait. With Maureen mollified, the wedding is officially underway once more.
With relief, I clock Kevin standing with his sister, inserting himself shamelessly into conversation with impeccably dressed guests our age. Business as usual.
I avoid catching his eye as I head with Tom to the bar, where I order sparkling water with lime. The drink is my excuse to linger here in the bar’s high visibility while I canoodle with my new boyfriend. His hand lowering to the curve of my hip, he leans in close, whispering in my ear. “Five hundred dollars of Nobu sushi,” he whispers with sultry promise. “My very own Patek Philippe Nautilus.”
I smile for real when I realize he’s naming purchases he’s going to make and stuff he’s going to do in Los Angeles with all the extra money the heist will leave him.
“Nights in the Viceroy L’Ermitage whenever I feel like it,” he murmurs. “Room service and everything.”
While I laugh—of course he has his luxury watch and hotel picked out—the French doors open, spilling out the groomsmen. Jackson hits the stairs with force until he sees me. His gait falters. His face crumples.
Tom’s arm still hugs my hips, my hand still resting on his lapel. It’s not enough, though. I need to rub this in. Past Tom, my eyes meet Jackson’s across the flagstone. I lean in closer to my date to whisper in his ear. “You wouldn’t happen to have expertise in dresses or women’s jewelry, would you?” I ask. “A celebratory shopping spree is sounding pretty good right now.”
I feel Tom’s laugh down my whole body.
When I look back to Jackson, his face is resolutely turned in the opposite direction, the muscles in his jaw visibly tight.
Good.
Today is about revenge, and maybe not just on my dad.
It would have been easier if Jackson hadn’t come today. If he’d spent the day with Kelly Devine or whatever other girl he’s trying to hook up with. But now that he is here, I realize I’m glad. Jackson deserves to see this. To know how I felt.
Satisfied, I sweep my eyes over the men behind him. Mitchum emerges. Then tech bros and wealthy men who’ve bought their sons spots on Forbes’s “30 Under 30.” Then the person I’m searching for. Quinn.
“Phase Four,” I say under my breath when I turn back to the bar.
I don’t have to wait long. Rook was prepped for this. While he was hired for his baking expertise, his athleticism will help with what comes next. Deonte sweeps through the crowd, champagne tray held high.
Right on schedule, I hear a loud crash behind me. The musicians stop playing. Gasps race across the patio.
I smile as I sip my sparkling water.
“Holy shit,” Tom murmurs, his head still near mine. “Was that—”
Looking like one of the startled guests, I whirl to take in the carnage by the steps. Quinn is drenched in an overfilled tray’s worth of champagne while Deonte stands in front of him, his posture contrite despite having just thrown the scoring touchdown in The Plan.
“The safe is programmed to text Dash’s phone every time it opens,” I explain to Tom. “His phone is…”
Tom’s eyes widen in impressed comprehension. “Let me guess. On the young man now wringing champagne from his suit?” he asks.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “My father’s assistant,” I confirm, waiting for the rest of Phase Four to unfold. Instead of the head caterer arriving on the scene and reprimanding the waiter he definitely didn’t hire or train, McCoy will swoop in. He’ll discreetly but professionally escort Deonte off the premises, looking to the crowd like security taking care of the disruption. Except in reality, Deonte will join Cass in the van.
Which… isn’t what happens.
I sit, going rigid, while Quinn Rhodes instantly explodes. Whether because he’s past his limits due to my dad’s demands or he knows he probably no longer has anything to lose employment-wise or he’s just an asshole—I know my vote—he starts shouting at Deonte.
We’re close enough to hear everything said, and from a lot farther we’d still be able to hear Quinn’s screams of “fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of iPhone” and “What is wrong with you?”
It is not discreet. It is not efficient.
I’m rising from my seat when circumstances worsen. Quinn has gotten in the face of the impressively impassive Deonte, seething. “You will reimburse the cost of the destroyed item,” he orders. “It’s nowhere near the cost in data loss, so you’re getting off easy. Fifteen. Hundred. I’ll sue you in small-claims court if I have to.” Deonte is wisely silent, correctly intuiting I’ll handle the Quinn situation later, one way or another. After tonight, fifteen hundred dollars will be nothing to all of us.
But into the fray steps… Jackson.
I pale. Jackson has no idea what he’s interrupting. He does, however, know his classmate is dealing with family difficulties.
“I’ll—I’ll pay,” he interjects. Even Deonte looks openly startled now. Jackson continues, gaining confidence. “I was in his way. It’s one iPhone, man. I’ll pay.”
He wasn’t in his way. Not good. Not good. Not only is it horribly messy from the planning perspective, it’s one more reminder I don’t need of how revenge against Jackson is something I desperately wish I didn’t want. After all, Jackson doesn’t have fifteen hundred dollars. Jackson mowed lawns to afford the pair of Adidas I really wanted for Christmas.
He’s just offering out of reckless kindness. Shameless generosity.
It’s a viscerally painful reminder of the difference dividing us like a diamond knife. The reason he could never want me, one I can’t even argue with.
I steal, while Jackson gives.
His offer mollifies Quinn, who’s realized he’s making a scene. “I’ll find you,” he promises Jackson, who nods with the same glorious, ridiculous confidence. In the ensuing moments, I note McCoy moving in. The relief I feel when he escorts Deonte off, according to plan, is immeasurable.
“Awful little man,” Tom remarks. “Not your ex,” he clarifies with admittedly amusing reluctance. “The assistant.”
“He’s nobody.” My voice is raw and unapologetically flippant. “He’ll be fired soon.”
Tom angles his body to look at me, his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. “I mean, he clearly sucks, but I’m guessing he was a jerk about the phone because your dad is a jerk to him. Now he’s going to lose his livelihood because of our scheme?”
I shrug.
“You don’t feel bad about that?” There’s no judgment in his question, only interest.
My lack of guilt is not something I would show anyone else. Tom is different, though. As the only member of my crew who is currently enrolled in a private school costing fifty grand a year, his motives are… murky. Like mine.
When I reached out to Tom Pham, having seen his social media posts on looking for funding for his Hollywood foray, he invited me to the new “gourmet frozen yogurt” place in his neighborhood. It had special high-end flavors like Colombian chocolate and rosewater raspberry. I’ll never forget starting the recruitment meeting with Tom eyeing me over his white cup of salted caramel–vanilla, sunglasses perched on his head.
Unlike with other members of my crew, I opted to come right out with my plan. When he inquired why we were meeting, I said, “I know you’re looking for funding for LA. I want your help stealing millions of dollars from my shitty dad.” If he wasn’t interested, I’d pretend I was screwing with him. I’d pass it off as a droll, elaborately constructed joke. Pretend I was filming a TikTok prank. The drama kid in him would accept my premise. I’d then ask him to tutor me in French, which he would decline.
Instead, when I pitched him on the heist, he stuck his plastic spoon into his Froyo. “Fun,” he said. “I’m in.”
He wasn’t joking. He knew I wasn’t joking. His eyes were hungry.
Fun.
Fascinating.
He watches me with the same exact expression now, waiting for the rationale for my remorselessness for Quinn.
“He helped cover up the affair my dad had while married to my mom,” I say flatly.
Tom receives my explanation. “You really hold a grudge,” he remarks.
I shoot him a look. “Obviously,” I reply. “If I didn’t, you would end the day a lot poorer than you will.”
His smile catches the glint of something delicately knowing. “While I’m very grateful for the opportunity for my personal gain, I do want to flag how your stone-cold drive for vengeance may not be the healthiest coping mechanism.”
I straighten in his arms, surprised—and suddenly annoyed. I wanted us on the same page. Thomas Pham is the one person in my crew, the one person in the world, on whom I could rely for freedom from judgment or inquiry, even in the midst of my inaugural heist. What I need from him is a co-conspirator, a dashing decoy, not someone to help me soul search or question my motives. “Thomas,” I say, noticing my fingers worrying the condensation on my glass in the sun. “Why are you doing this, exactly?”
“I’m just pointing out you might want to consider—”
“No.” I shake my head. I want to make him say what I need to hear. To repeat what’s ringing in my own ears. I wrap my voice in vicious velvet. “Say it. Don’t lie to me. Why are you doing this job? You don’t need a million dollars to move to LA and start auditioning.”
Tom grins. “No one really needs a million dollars. Doesn’t mean we don’t want it. I’d rather audition from a home in Santa Monica instead of the back room of a house I found on Craigslist.”
It isn’t enough. He’s evading. Playing with me, probably. He’s him. I lean closer, holding his gaze. I’m sure only he can see what’s hiding in my sweet expression.
“You can admit it, you know,” I say. “To me.”
“What?”
“You like this,” I declare in knowing victory. “As much as I do. The thrill of it. The feeling of proving just how much you’re capable of.”
Tom’s smile grows. His eyes spark like fireworks in the night sky, explosions of enchanting danger against the darkness. In the distance, the musicians start heading toward the water, where the ceremony will take place.
He eyes me intently. I don’t know whether he’s looking for something or just looking.
Finally, lowering his gaze, he speaks kindly. “I guess what I’m saying is,” he replies, “hold your grudge. Get your vengeance. Wonderful, as long as it’s not… against yourself. None of this is your fault.”
Feeling as if I’m pulling myself from the grip of his words, I look away. Instead, I focus on the greenery in front of me, the grounds done up in Maureen’s voluptuous vision.
In this very garden, I would play games with my mom. Somersault contests. Horse pretend, which was exactly what the activity sounds like. Paddleball and, of course, my favorite. Hide-and-seek. In the hydrangeas, I would crouch, feeling as if I were fleeing not only my indulgent pursuer, but the entire world.
It’s how I feel ignoring Tom’s insight. Like I’m fleeing. Hiding.
Except it isn’t fun now.
He presses gently. “Olivia, do you hear me? What your father did, what Jackson did to you—”
The warning glare I flash him stops the sentence on his lips. We are not discussing my disastrously failed relationship. Not in the middle of Phase Four, not ever.
He doesn’t flinch. I watch him reevaluate, design some new rhetorical path forward. I prepare myself for graceful generosity or guilt or concern—oh, the concern—or whatever other well-intentioned response will just make me feel worse.
Instead, because he’s Tom, he only smiles.
I’m spared having to interrogate why he’s eyeing me like he knows something I don’t when security approaches us—
No, not security.
McCoy is only just managing to hide the panicked skip in his stride. His ungainly facial hair twitches with his nervous chewing of the inside of his lip.
He looks scared.
On the periphery of the champagne-welcome festivities, he halts, waiting near the low stone steps up to the deck. He covertly gestures for me to come join him. I hand Tom my drink, giving him a cautionary glance saying we will not resume our discussion later, then head for where McCoy stands urgently.
Keeping my composure casual, I walk until he’s close enough to speak to me and not be overheard. He leans in, preserving what looks like event security informing the groom’s daughter of some routine goings-on in the house.
What he whispers to me is nothing routine, however.
“Cass and the van,” he says, “are gone.”