Page 55 of Spearcrest Queen

I call him Max’s nickname for him on impulse. He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Not as impressive as having an internship like KMG on your résumé,” he says. “Life must be so much easier when you don’t need to rely on academic accolades.”

There it is.

The underhanded jab, the subtle dig disguised as conversation. The implication that I don’t need academic prestige because I’ve already secured a golden ticket elsewhere.

But worse than that: the name KMG thrown in my face, Evan’s name unspoken because Anthony doesn’t need to draw the gun when I’ve already been shot through the heart.

“Oh, you’re absolutely right,” I tell him. “That’s why I don’t need to brag about my future successes at networking events.” Anthony’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. I add lightly, “I find it wiser to only boast about the things I’vealreadyachieved.”

I let my smile blossom, widen, a smile of pure satisfaction and glee that lets him know that he’s made a mistake.

I don’t need to tell him I’m going to take the Harvard Law Review spot from him. His eyes narrow to black slits, and colour rises in his cheeks. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, his sudden fear palpable and flavourful, a delicacy worth every hour of work I’m going to need to sink into writing an article good enough for publication.

Six months ago, Anthony took something from me. Now I take something from him. And he was right: I don’t need it. But taking HLR from him with both of us knowing I don’t even need it will only make the victory sweeter.

27

Fifty Bucks

Evan

The building is tuckedaway on a quiet street in the West Village, wedged between a secondhand bookshop and a café that makes the entire street smell like cinnamon and burnt espresso.

From the outside, it doesn’t look like much: four stories of weathered brownstone, narrow windows, a faded sign above the door, the once-gold lettering ofInkspill Publicationsnow a dull, peeling brass. If I didn’t know what I was looking for, I’d have missed it entirely.

I stand on the pavement despite the fresh flurry of rainfall beating against my umbrella. This place couldn’t look more different from KMG: no glass towers, no security guards, no sleek marble lobbies—my surname nowhere to be seen.

Thank fuck.

I let out a slow breath, muscles easing in my back and shoulders.

And I push open the door.

Inside, it’s even less like KMG than outside. I make my way up a steep wooden staircase to an office full of bookshelves and overstuffed desks. The air, which smells of paper and leatherand old wood and black coffee, sends a sudden wave of nostalgia through me: it smells like the Spearcrest library used to.

There are manuscripts piled everywhere: on desk corners and in chairs and on a rickety table in a coffee area. Half-empty mugs litter every available surface, some resting on stacks of proofs, others shoved behind old keyboards. A dying plant droops in one corner, its leaves yellowing under the light of mismatched desk lamps.

Sophie would love it here.

The thought hits me before I can stop it. In another life, Sophie might have curled up in one of the brown velvet armchairs shoved against the wall, reading through a manuscript, eyebrows drawn in concentration, fingers absently tracing lines of marginalia.

“Can I help?”

A voice like a whip cracks through my thoughts, snapping me—thankfully—back to reality. I turn to find a woman standing in a doorway to my left, arms crossed. She’s sharp-featured, with inky eyes and big tortoiseshell glasses, her curly hair pulled into a ponytail.

I immediately know who she is. Inés Alfaro. The Editor-in-Chief, the woman whose toes I’ve been sent to tread on. The captain of the ship I’ll be standing with as it goes down.

“Hi,” I say, extending my hand towards her. “Evan Knight.”

“Ah, the heir.” Her grip is surprisingly firm; she’s wearing dark green nail polish and thick silver rings that dig into my fingers. “So you actually showed up. We had a pool going.”

“You’ve set me back fifty bucks,” says a man, following her out from the room she just emerged from. He’s wearing a crumpled blazer over a T-shirt and there’s a massive mug of milky coffee in his hand.

“Sorry about that,” I tell him. And, mostly to Inés, I add, “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

She snorts. “Right. Well, since you’re gracing us with your presence, let’s try to make some use of you, right?”

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