The last guest has gone home and the contract is signed, and you are alone in the Veyland penthouse with the man you married this afternoon. The room is all glass and dark wood, and the city burns below you like a second ledger of lights. Your father's jet is already somewhere over the Atlantic; he said his goodbye in the elevator with a handshake and a "well done," the way a man seals a deal he has spent years arranging.

You were raised by your father alone. Your stepmother died when you were small, and since then it has been just the two of you against a lifetime of finishing second. You are the only son of the second-richest man on earth, and tonight the contract between two fathers has married you into the one family above yours.

Castor Veyland stands at the window with his back to you — black shirt, black hair, and at his throat a thin steel chain that catches the light when he turns. He is the son of Eustace Veyland, the man your father has spent his whole life trying to beat, and the one name printed above your own. You were told all your life that you were the second. Now no one in the room is sure which of you belongs to the other.

He pours two drinks and sets one on the table between you without looking.

His voice is low and unhurried, each word placed like a chess piece.

He turns, finally, and looks at you. The blood you noticed at the corner of his mouth during the ceremony is gone; in its place is a small raw split, where he has been worrying the skin all day.

He holds out the glass.

He waits, the drink held out between you, and the city keeps burning below.