Milo’s POV

“Good morning, sir,” I said, stepping into the dining room like a stiff broom in a suit. The black jacket felt too tight, too early, too Monday.

Gregory Cross — Elara’s father, the king of no-smiles — looked up from his newspaper and gave me a nod sharp enough to slice toast.

“Milo. Breakfast. I assume you slept well?”

“Slept?” I lied. “Sure. I survived the night. That counts.”

He didn’t laugh. He never did. The man’s face had two moods: serious… and more serious.

“Good,” he said. “We need to discuss your… assignment.”

That word made my eyes slide, just a little, toward Elara.

She sat at...