Page 114 of Spearcrest Queen

Love,

Mum and Dad

Sophie looks up at me, eyes soft and wide and full of emotion. I look down at her from the counter. “Told you.”

Hugging the book in her arms, she stands between my thighs, resting her head on my chest. I wrap my arms around her, kissing the top of her head, stroking up and down her back.

“You gonna lend it to me?” I ask against her hair.

She looks up, laughing despite her wet eyelashes. “You want to readJane Eyre?”

“I hear it’s about a strong hard-working girl falling in love with a rich obnoxious asshole. Gotta make sure it ends well.”

“I have good news and bad news.”

I shake my head. “She ends up marrying him, and they have two sons and two daughters and a golden retriever, and they are happily in love for the rest of their lives.”

“Well, actually, there’s a fire, and her sexy repressed cousin proposes to her, but—”

I place a finger gently on her lips. She stops talking to kiss it, and I slide it away from her lips and under her chin, tilting her face up to me.

“And they are happily in love for the rest of their lives, Sutton.”

Her lips quirk as she tries to contain her smile. She lifts her eyebrows. “The dog is a non-negotiable clause.”

I lean in, my voice low, almost rough. “So’s the wedding.”

She considers it for a split second, and for that split second, my heart doesn’t even dare to beat. Then her lips curve, and she sticks out her hand.

“Deal.”

I don’t bother shaking her hand. Cupping her face, I seal the deal the way deals are sealed in fairy tales, not boardrooms: with a kiss.

The End

Five Years Later

Evan

The Spearcrest letter arriveson a Friday morning, waiting in our letterbox between a copy ofThe New York Timeswith Sophie’s latest case plastered across the front page and a glossyGQmagazine, the cover a photo of me shirtless in a tennis court—a contrast so perfect I almost laugh when I pick up the pile.

The apartment is quiet except for the distant rumour of the city outside and the padding of Sophie’s bare feet coming from the bedroom. Orange streaks of sunlight filter in through the curtain, falling over the books stacked on the coffee table, the bouquet of fresh tulips on the kitchen island next to a half-empty box of coffee brandy truffles.

Our home isn’t the pristine loft it was when we first moved in. Framed photos crowd the edges of the bookshelves: one from our first summer at Château Montcroix, Sophie in a black Prada bikini feeding me her ice cream from the edge of the pool. A Christmas at Blackwood Hall, Luca covering his face while Sev, Zach and I sing drunkenly into the champagne bottles we’re holding instead of mics. A polaroid Anaïs took of me and Iakov passed out in the grass at her wedding, Sophie and Zahara tucking flowers in our hands like we’re dead.

Above the antique mahogany cabinet, Inkspill’s latest award gleams next to a bronze statue of Lady Justice—a gift from Renata Sardowski after Sophie won her first high-profile discrimination case. Above those, the wall is a small gallery of photos, framed articles and notes, including one from Mr Park congratulating Sophie on a recent award, a thank-you card from Matt where he refers to me as a true friend, which I cherish more than any award (and which he still claims to this day he wrote drunk—a blatant lie, since Matt has the tolerance of a rock slab.)

In the middle of all those is a single Post-it in a gilded frame, where Sophie’s handwriting reads “Fuck off” with the “off” crossed out and replaced by “me” and signed with a hasty black heart and the letter S.

I lay down my things on the kitchen island: the mail, which includes a legal brief markedConfidential, and a signed copy of Inkspill’s latest publication,The Cartographer’s Lie: Maps, Power, and the Shaping of the World,and of course, breakfast. The smell of coffee mingling with the faintest traces of Sophie’s perfume, that sweet vanilla smell that still makes me want to melt to a puddle.

Picking up the Spearcrest letter, I flip it in my hands.

It’s in a thick, heavy envelope, instantly recognisable by the Spearcrest coat of arms, the ribbon beneath the shield reading the words:Audentes fortuna iuvat.

Fortune favours the bold.

Words that I can’t help but associate with Sophie—the boldest person I know.

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