Page 76 of Spearcrest Queen

Sophie

January slips through myfingers; I barely register it passing, too consumed by work. If heartbreak is a wound, then ambition is the cauterising iron. The more I throw myself into my studies, the less I have to think about what’s missing.

And then there’s Max.

The plan doesn’t come to me all at once. It builds, layer by layer, until one day I step back and realise I’ve got all the pieces I need for the deadly weapon I’m going to fire into his chest.

It starts with the email from Professor Callahan, offering me the chance to deliver a presentation in front of the entire 2L class at the end of term. A prestigious slot, usually given to students who are particularly distinguishing themselves. Well, that’s precisely what I’ve done with my Harvard Law Review article, which means the stage is mine if I want it.

Oh, and I want it.

I email Professor Callahan back without hesitation, thanking him for the opportunity he’s given me and assuring him I intend to make themost of it.

Now for my presentation. My article does much to speak for itself. The use of NDAs as legal gags in sexual harassment cases: it’s a solid topic, controversial enough to spark debate, meticulously researched, and, sadly, all too pertinent to me and all the other women on my course who are going to be entering workplaces full of wealthy, influential, powerful men.

But theory and old case files aren’t enough. My article has teeth—time to take a chunk out of someone. I select my case studies with ruthless meticulousness. The right combination of precedents, scandal, and impact. Enough to ensure that when I take my shot, the bullet hits.

Men like this are sloppy. Their power and sense of invincibility make them complacent. They make mistakes. They cut corners. They say things they shouldn’t.

So I get to work. And I work meticulously.

I spend hours polishing my arguments, double-checking my data, honing my rhetoric. Every counterpoint is anticipated and destroyed before it even has the chance to form. I practise alone in the apartment, reciting my points to the empty living room.

Elle and Sol come back from a night out one time to find me standing in the kitchen at two in the morning, laptop open, muttering to myself between sips of cold coffee.

“Jesus Christ, Sophie,” Elle groans. “Honey, you need to go to bed.”

“I will,” I tell her, taking off my glasses to rub my eyes. “Just one last thing.”

“You said that before we left,” Elle says, kicking off her heels with a yawn. “Five hours ago.”

Sol sighs, taking my mug and replacing it with a glass of water.

“Drink,” she says. “Before you start speaking in tongues and fucking levitating.”

To appease Solana andElle, and partly as an apology for messing up my date with Andrew, and also maybe because I’ve been working non-stop since I got back from the holiday, I agree to go out for Valentine’s Day.

We do shots before getting ready and dress absolutely ridiculous: Sol in a tight black vinyl skirt and corset top, Elle in a blood-red lace bodycon with a completely open back, and me in a tiny black slip dress with lace panelling on the sides.

It’s closer to lingerie than a dress, but I look good in it—or at least the sambuca tells me I do. I pull my hair into a ponytail and throw on a black oversized blazer and shiny black heels to hopefully make the outfit feel a little more respectable.

Not that respectability is an issue.

The moment we arrive at the club on the Boston waterfront, I realise that overdressing isn’t even possible. Everything here is over-the-top, neon-drenched, excessive, music pulsing through my skin. The flashing lights, blue-pink-purple, refract from the mirrored ceiling, and the crowd is one dancing blur as we make our way through.

Maybe it’s the shots, maybe it’s the weight of an entire year spent working myself half to death—but I finally let go. I let the bass swallow me, let the neon lights paint me every colour, let the champagne fizz through my veins.

I tip my head back, arms falling around Elle’s shoulders, and we dance like idiots, like nothing matters, and maybe that’s the problem, my problem all along, that I care too much when in reality, nothing actually matters.

When we’re both breathless and exhausted from dancing, Elle loops an arm around my waist, laughing into my ear as she pulls me towards our table in the VIP section where some of Sol’s friends wait with Dom Pérignon in ice.

It’s an interesting crowd: trust fund kids and international students throwing down Amexes like they’re playing cards. Sol leans into her boyfriend, draped on him like a queen on a throne, while a server in a skimpy black dress refills our glasses.

I tip mine back, downing my champagne, and then I lean suddenly forward into Elle in a perfect imitation of Sol and her boyfriend.

“Jesus, you’re drunk,” Elle says, steadying me.

“Just giving Sol a test of her own—” I raise my hand. “No, astateof her own med—shit. A taste—”

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