EMBER’S POV
“Absolutely not,” Nathaniel says. “I refuse.”
“You don’t get to refuse.” Queenie doesn’t look up from the tablet. “You’re the getaway.”
“I am the strategist. I engineer the plan. I do not sit in a car.”
“You sit in a car.”
We’ve been at it for two hours, spread across the war table in Knox’s east study — me, Knox, Queenie, and Nathaniel, who arrived this morning with three encrypted drives and a face like a man who has slept four hours in the last three days.
And I have learned two things.
One: planning a heist is much less glamorous than the word “heist” would suggest.
Two, whatever fragile thing exists between Nathaniel and Queenie right now is going to make the next several hours deeply uncomfortable for everyone in this room.
“Let’s start from the top,” I say, beca
