Page 68 of Spearcrest Queen

“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy this,” she whispers. Her voice is trembling now, a raw, broken thing. “Don’t pretend you don’tlikeseeing me like this.”

I don’t answer. My silence speaks for me.

“What are you going to do?” Dahlia’s lips curl, but it’s a pathetic excuse for a smirk, like a snake baring its fangs after being drained of its deadly venom. “Find some other way of destroying me?”

I take a slow step back, dragging my gaze over her slowly, deliberately, taking her measure, and finding her lacking.

I tell her the truth.

“You’re not even worth destroying.”

Dahlia sways slightly, eyes widening with impotent hatred. Her mouth moves wordlessly. What would she say anyway? Tell me sheisworth destroying? Beg me to blackmail her?

Of course not.

And although there’s a low curl of unease wreathing through me at the sight of her, I also realise that empathy is a precious resource, one I refuse to share with those who are unworthy. Dahlia could’ve chosen to make a friend out of me, and, in turn, I could’ve chosen to comfort her when she needed comforting.

But she made her choice, and now, so do I.

By the time Iget back to my apartment, I feel like I’ve been wrung dry. The rush of triumph from watching Dahlia crumble has already faded, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I have the strange sense of feeling unclean and tainted, like there’s someone else’s dirt underneath my fingernails.

I should feel victorious—another win, another step forward—but instead, everything feels polluted. Marcel Roth. All the horrible abuses of power I spent months reading and writing about. My own successes dragged through that filth.

Maybe that’s why, when I open my laptop to check for flights home, I don’t hesitate. For once, I don’t overthink it. I just book it.

I land in Heathrowwith five days left until Christmas.

It’s my first time spending the Christmas holiday with my parents since before my last year at Spearcrest. Our small garden is buried under a fluffy blanket of snow. On the little brick wall, some neighbourhood kids must have built three small snowmen, their faces squished in, one of their little elderberry eyes fallen on the wall.

Taking off my gloves, I kneel in front of the wall, and I place the berry back into the little snowy eye socket.

When I knock on the door, Mum opens itwith a gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart, why didn’t you say you’d arrived? We would’ve come to pick you up!”

“Heathrow, this close to Christmas?” I say, smiling into her hair as we hug. “You’d still be in traffic by New Year.”

“Hello, love,” Dad says, reaching over Mum to kiss my head. “Come in, come in, you’re letting the cold in.”

They rush me through the house, taking my suitcase, my coat, propping my boots near the radiator, Mum rushing me towards the kitchen where she immediately sets about making a cup of tea. I’m surprised to find that the house smells exactly how I remember: like detergent and vanilla candles.

Everything looks the way I remember it. Even the Christmas tree has the same decorations, the blue and silver fairy lights, the little bear ornament I’d painted in primary school.

I’m turning away from it when I notice something new: a gold frame on top of the mantelpiece, right in the centre like a pièce de résistance, tall candles flanking it on both sides.

“Oh god, what’s this?” I look at my parents through my hands. “Please tell me you’ve not had my article framed.”

“Your dad did,” Mum says proudly.

“I think it looks good,” Dad says with a shrug, bringing in the tray with cups of tea and a box of biscuits. “I got the frame from the market—it’s an antique.”

“Is this because you want to impress Aunt Polly?” I ask.

“Aunt Polly’s already impressed,” Mum says without bothering to disguise her satisfaction. “I can tell you it’s been a long time since she’s brought up Marianne’s first-class degree.”

I don’t comment with the fact that neither Marianne nor I ever cared which one of us was doing better in school, or racking up more awards and achievements. There’s no point; the competition was never about us anyway.

Mum and Dad are all too happy to fill me in with all the gossip: the neighbourhood, their friends, my aunts and uncles and cousins, Spearcrest.

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