Page 49 of Spearcrest Queen

I recoil, taking three steps back. Evan doesn’t follow me. He’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him, a writhing, blazing heap of hurt pouring right out of him.

“What I did down there was the right thing, and you’re punishing me for it. Just like you’ve been punishing me for my surname, just like you’ve been punishing me for who my parents are. And I’ve—” His voice breaks. He swallows thickly, throat shuddering. “I’ve taken it all, haven’t I? Haven’t I let you punish me? Haven’t I allowed myself to be your dirty secret? Don’t I debase myself for your amusement, your satisfaction? Don’t I do everything you ask?”

He pauses as if expecting an answer, but I can’t manage to cough anything up. He lets out a sharp exhalation.

“Right—exactly. But we all have to draw a line somewhere, and this is where I draw mine. I draw the line at watching my girlfriend get humiliated for the sake of some stupid fuck’s power play. I draw the line at letting you suffer in the name of your independence and strength. A relationship isn’t two people fighting their own corners and meeting every other month to fuck, Sutton. A relationship is two people fighting their corner together.”

I catch my breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to say, for what I know I have to say, what I’ve known all along I should do. What I should have done, if I hadn’t been selfish and weak.

But I don’t want to. Standing on the edge of the precipice, knowing what needs to be done, my courage falters, as fragile as the flame of a candle.

Evan watches me, his eyes dropping to my mouth, watching the words trembling there. He lets out a noise from deep in his throat, something between a laugh and a sob. He shakes his head and wipes a tired hand over his face.

When he lifts his eyes back to mine, they’re wet with blooming tears.

“Yes,” he says. His voice is low now, soft and hoarse. “Alright, Sutton, yea.”

My heart lurches horribly, like he’s reached straight into my chest and dug his finger deep in the red tissue andyanked. A wave of panic rises over me, dwarfing me, and I feel impossibly small, so tiny I know the wave will obliterate me the moment it falls. I stare up at him, blinking away the tears in my own eyes.

“Yes, what?” I rasp, my voice as small and pitiful as I feel.

“Yes,” he breathes, sounding utterly defeated. His shoulders slump suddenly, like a fighter that’s given up protecting himself, his arms limp at his side, knuckles still white from being clenched into fists. A tear falls from one of his eyes, leaving a glimmering trail over his flushed, carved cheek. “Let’s end this.”

24

Cold Food

Sophie

Revenge is a dishbest served cold.

But no one ever talks about the hunger that comes before.

Six months ago, I left New York in ruins. I didn’t give myself time to wallow, and I got to work with a vengeance.

Now, I should be returning to Harvard with a sense of achievement. My summer was a series of victories: I claimed the KMG internship, sharpened my skills, left behind an impeccable impression. I secured an offer for next summer and cultivated a new web of connections. I made enough money to stop feeling that gnawing pressure in the pit of my stomach.

Even made some friends—unexpected, but useful. My new apartment in Cambridge is beautiful, shared with two girls: Elle Sinclair, a fellow Law intern I met at KMG, and her friend Solana Castillo, a third-year Finance student. By all accounts, it’s the best start to the year I could possibly ask for.

It would be, if not for the open wound in my chest.

The last night I saw him, Evan told me that Spearcrest left a wound inside me, and that he was the knife still stuck inside, keeping it from healing. He was right, but not in the way hethought. He wasn’t keeping the wound open; he was holding it shut. And now the blade is gone, and the wound isn’t healing at all. It’s gaping open, red and angry, pouring blood.

Spring burst into summer, and summer faded into fall; I’ve not stopped bleeding.

I could’ve accepted this, if I had been the one to wield the knife. If I had made the choice to end it. But I didn’t. The knife was yanked away before I was ready—ripped out when the wound was at its sorest and most tender, ripped out by the same hands that pushed me to the edge in the first place.

Maximilian Fitzpatrick.

Dahlia Lindenfeld.

Anthony Harrington.

I don’t distinguish between perpetrators and accomplices, and I don’t care about what they did at the gala, not really. It’s been six months—almost half a year. Humiliation fades. Pain dulls. Any advantage they might have taken from me by publicly humiliating me, I’ll earn back. They’re not special enough to leave permanent scars.

But they cost meEvan.

For that, they’re going to pay.

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