Glorious Rivals(95)

Rohan reached immediately for the dice in his pocket—red dice that rolled a six and a two, every time, for a total of eight. Savannah’s white dice had yielded the same result through a slightly different roll—a five and a three.

Biggest, smallest, white, red. Do you know the question yet?

Rohan could do the Hawthorne heiress one better. He knew the answer. The code. Stepping off the staircase, Rohan looked for a way to input it. The room before him was plain. The floor was made of what looked like cement. The walls were white and bare. There was no keypad, no combination dial, no flatscreen on which to enter the code that Rohan knew.

The only object in the entire room was a small glass cylinder sitting on the floor, its circumference just slightly bigger than the breadth of Rohan’s dice.

And that was when Rohan knew: The dice weren’t just a clue to a combination. They weren’t a code. The dice themselves were the key to one final lock—and he needed both pairs.

Biggest, smallest, white, red. Do you know the question yet?

Rohan thought back to words that Avery Grambs had spoken at the beginning of phase two. Only one of you can win this year’s Grandest Game, but in a very real sense, none of you are in this alone.

“I knew it was going to be you.” Savannah stepped out of the shadows, and in Rohan’s mind, he heard yet another voice. It ain’t gonna be you, kid.

Nash Hawthorne had predicted that Rohan was going to lose the Grandest Game, because Hawthorne games had heart. And to win this game…

Rohan looked from the dice in his palm up to another palm, holding another set of dice. Savannah’s. From the room above, there was a rumbling sound—the wall at the top of the stairs, parting once more.

Rohan’s watch buzzed. Twice. Lyra and Grayson had paid the toll, and Rohan knew, whether or not they’d mended things, Grayson Hawthorne would give Lyra Kane his dice in an instant.

Biggest, smallest, white, red. Do you know the question yet?

Rohan knew. He’d solved it. And it didn’t matter. Bloody Hawthornes and their bloody games. There was no time. No time to make a go at lifting your dice, love. No time for persuasion. No time for bargains.

The Devil’s Mercy hung in the balance, and there was no time for Rohan to do anything except the one thing that Nash Hawthorne had clearly not expected him to be capable of.

“Damn it all to hell and back.” Rohan crossed to Savannah and pressed his dice into her hands.

Trust was weakness.

Affection was weakness.

Rohan was not wired to rely on anyone else, ever—not like this. But what choice did he have? He’d aligned himself with Savannah Grayson, and he’d pushed her away. He’d pushed and pushed and pushed, and the betrayal had never come.

Make your move, love.

Savannah did not hesitate. She never hesitated, was incapable of it. One after another, she dropped the glass dice into the cylinder: White dice first, the five before the three. Then the red six and the red two last.

Biggest, smallest, white, red. Do you know the question yet?

The second the last die was in the cylinder, music filled the air. Church bells. The ceiling parted. A flatscreen television descended, an obvious camera attached to its side. The screen flickered to life—but the light on the camera never came on.

On the screen, there were four chairs. One for each of the game makers, but those chairs were…

Empty.

Rohan’s watch buzzed. He didn’t look down, his eyes trained on Savannah. Behind him, Lyra Kane read the message they had all just received aloud: “We have a winner.”

Savannah. She’d won the Grandest Game. But there was no one on the screen—no Hawthornes, no heiress, not even their lawyer. There was no livestream, no one to accuse.

“Where are they?” Savannah Grayson was fury and poise and best-laid plans come to ruin. “I won.” Savannah did not raise her voice, but she might as well have been screaming for all the power and heartbreak in those words. “Where are they?”

Rohan had warned her. She’d never stood a chance without the element of surprise. Should have taken Brady’s deal, love. But before Rohan could say that out loud, Grayson Hawthorne took a heavy step forward, staring bullets at the screen and those empty chairs.

“Something is wrong.”

Chapter 82

GIGI

Four miles, due north. Gigi wasn’t sure she was going to make it.

Here lies Gigi Grayson, her tombstone would read, done in by cardio in the end.

When the bar finally came into view in the distance, Gigi tried—and failed—to breathe a sigh of relief. This night was ending. This brief, absolutely bonkers chapter in her life was coming to a close.

“This is as far as we go,” Eve told Slate. “We need to be long gone before anyone Hawthorne-adjacent comes for her.”

That stung more than it probably should have.

“Stay out of trouble, sunshine.”

A ball of emotion rose in Gigi’s throat, but she chose to smile. Because she could. Because even after everything, she still had to believe that happiness was a choice.

“Trouble is my second middle name,” she told Slate. “Juliet Aurelia Trouble Grayson.” Her smile wavered, but Gigi persevered, nodding toward the bar, which looked, even from a distance, every bit as seedy as advertised. “Think they sell mimosas?”

“No,” Slate said. “I don’t.”