Page 50 of Spearcrest Queen

Revenge isn’t a plan, a choice. It’s a deep dark hunger, a hollow pit that demands to be filled. The dish may be served cold, so long as it’s rich enough to satisfy my hunger. And I intend to feast.

All through my first year, all I did was try to pacify them. Play along. Appease them. Allow myself to be the mouse the cats toyed with for their amusement, because I thought it would keep me out of the line of fire. I thought if I stayed quiet enough, careful enough, they’d get bored. They didn’t.

But I was wrong all along.

I’m not a mouse for them to toywith.

I’m a wolf, and it’s time to hunt.

I meet Alice Liuat Nadine’s at six at the end of our first week back. The bar-restaurant, our favourite haunt in Cambridge, is the perfect place for good food and boozy debriefs. The ceiling is strung with lanterns, their reflections pooling across the tables like scattered pearls.

Alice is already seated when I arrive, settled into the curve of a leather banquette. Her hair is black as wet ink, her cream tweed dress pristine, her matching Chanel purse resting beside her like an obedient pet.

I look like her exact opposite: black sweater, tailored skirt, high boots, slicked-back hair. Chessboard pieces, black and white.

She doesn’t look up immediately. She drags her gaze over me first, letting me wait. Then she gives a small, knowing smile.

“I take it you took to Manhattan like a duck to water?”

I slide into the booth beside her, smoothing the linen napkin over my lap while I throw her a sardonic look.

“If by that you mean I spent ten weeks working myself to the bone while men in five-thousand-dollar suits talked about the law like it’s the rules of a video game—then yes. Exactly like a duck to water.”

I don’t say the rest: that I thrived in that environment. That I didn’t need to enjoy the people I was around and the work I was doing to be greatat it, and that knowing I was great at it made it all feel good enough that I could ignore all the distasteful parts.

I’ve always found the powerful repellent, but wielding power felt anythingbutrepellent. It felt right, like something that I’d alwaysfound ugly and repulsive could turn beautiful in my own hands.

“Don’t judge, now.” Alice smirks. “Soon,you’regoing to be the one in a five-thousand-dollar dress talking about the law like it’s a game.”

The thought sends a tiny shiver of discomfort through me, but before I can reply, a waiter appears at our table.

“Oysters to start,” Alice says, handing the menu back without even looking at it. “And the seared tuna, no rice, extra yuzu dressing.”

The waiter nods and turns to me. I take my time, scanning the menu under Alice’s watchful doll eyes. It’s been a long day—a long week—and I’m starving.

“I’ll have the beef tartare to start, and the filet mignon, medium rare. Thank you.”

“Craving meat?” Alice says as the waiter walks away.

And because I don’t want to think about Evan, and even thinking about not thinking about him is still thinking about him, I shake my head.

“Low blood iron.”

Alice snorts but doesn’t push. We order our drinks: a kir royale for Alice, the colour of the raspberry garnish a perfect match to her nails, and a chilled Lillet Blanc for me. The first cold sip is heavenly, and I settle back against the banquette, tasting honey and candied lemon on my tongue as I raise an eyebrow at Alice.

“How wasyoursummer?”

“Six weeks of high-stakes litigation, non-stop paperwork, and a mentor with a wall of awards who made sure to let us all know what an ‘ally’ he was right before interrupting every woman who tried to utter so much as a sentence.” Her pout twists with annoyance at the memory, and she gives a little sigh. “On theplus side, there were just enough scandalous client stories to make me feel morally bankrupt before I even graduate, so that’s over and done with at least.” She flicks back a silken strand of her hair. “All in all, I’d say my expectations were met.”

Alice’s voice is as sweet and pretty as a pink frosted cupcake, but that sweetness is so calculated that I can’t help but wonder how much of the truth she’s telling me.

She doesn’t come across as though she has any doubts, with her supreme confidence and showy pragmatism, but there’s a curious undercurrent to Alice that I can’t quite explain, like realising someone is wearing armour without being able to catch even the smallest glimpse of what they look like underneath the chain mail.

Did she enjoy her internship? Did she excel? Did it fulfil her? Her words don’t reveal any of those things, and I don’t ask. She doesn’t owe me the complete truth, after all. We’re not friends, not really, more like tentative allies or wary co-conspirators.

“At least you weren’t writing compliance memos on media ethics that are basically more myth than fact.”

Our starters arrive. The steak tartare glistens lushly, flecked with capers and slivers of shallot, a raw egg yolk nestled in its centre like a jewel.

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