Page 5 of Spearcrest Queen

“So you’re, what, British?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m—”

“She’s not going to fuck the lawyer,” Dahlia says abruptly, handing Maximilian her vape pen.

Instead of taking it, he catches the tip between his lips, which forces him to move away enough that I can finally stand up. He sucks and lets out a plume of smoke, watching me as I shoulder my bag.

“The British are too uptight for this kind of stuff,” Dahlia adds, “no offence.”

“None taken.”

“So you think you’re going to be the one to fuck the teacher, Lin?” Maximilian says. “Thought you swore off sexual scheming?”

She rolls her eyes. “I never—”

“Hey, let’s get lunch,” the dark-haired boy says, suddenly looking up from his phone. “I’m hungry and I need a fucking drink after listening to all that stuff. Did you hear, by the way?” He locks his phone and slips it into his pocket. “Being rich is illegal now.”

“That’s not what he said,” Dahlia snaps.

“Yes, let’s do lunch.” Maximilian glances at me, his grin sharp, practised and commandeering, like the snapping of fingers at a waiter. “Come on, Queen Elizabeth. We’re supposed to be bonding as a cohort, aren’t we? We’re the golden fifteen—you don’t want to miss out on the fun.”

Ironic how he throws the title of queen at my face, a joke and a dismissal, while himself being closer to royalty than I’ll ever be.

“The queen’s dead, you idiot,” Dahlia says.

“You’re coming, dead queen?” he rephrases with a sneer, glancing at my hands. “I’m treating.”

I drop my eyes and see what he sees, as if I’m suddenly standing outside of myself, looking down: long fingers, short fingernails, bitten to the quick. No rings, no polish.

Without even meaning to, I pull my sleeves down as far past my knuckles as I can.

“She’s not going to fuck Park, and she’s not going to fuck you either, you know,” the black-haired boy continues on in blissful oblivion.

“I don’t want her to fuck me,” Maximilian says, finally looking away from me and at the black-haired boy. “I wantyouto fuck me, Ray-Ray. Stop leading me on.”

The black-haired boy plucks the vape pen from Maximilian’s lips and walks away with it, calling, “In your dreams, creep.”

Every part of me is repulsed by them, their wealth, their greasy, unpleasant banter. But refusing might be a mistake I can’t afford to make. I know all too well what can happen when rich kids take a dislike to you, and I couldn’t bear putting myself through more years of that kind of torment.

So I let Dahlia drag me away by my arm, knowing it’s the safer thing to do. The DART programme is supposed to foster brilliance, to turn us into the best of the best; rightnow, I can’t help but wonder if this is the real test: learning how to survive people like them.

2

Charity Hall

Sophie

Lunch is exactly whatI expected: an expensive restaurant where prices aren’t listed, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the high street, drinks before, with, and after food. Disagreeable banter, lazy laughter.

When Maximilian invited me, I didn’t realise he meant breaking away from the entire DART cohort. Now, sitting in a blue velvet booth with them, I can’t help but worry—how soon can I leave without making an enemy of them?

Maximilian, casting a glance at my black coffee and turkey sandwich, sinks back into the corner of the booth. He’s taking up more space than he needs, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles next to mine. Every time he moves his feet, they tap against my ankle; he doesn’t apologise.

“How ascetic of you,” he says, gesturing at my plate. “Afraid to indulge? Or—” He lowers his voice mockingly. “You’re not watching your figure, are you?”

Dahlia, sipping her martini, doesn’t even glance at me. “She’s not fat.”

“I didn’t call her fat,” Maximilian says, still watching me.

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