Page 15 of Spearcrest Queen

“Yes.” She says it sharply and then corrects herself, speaking a little more gently. “Yeah, don’t worry. It’s just been a lot. I’m glad we’re going away.”

“Me too.”

We drive through the blur of rain and lights. Sophie is curled up in her seat, her legs hugged to her chest. She keeps dropping back into her own thoughts, and every question I ask gets the shortest, most non-committal answer.

“How did your summer course go?”

“It was pretty challenging. But it went well.”

“You like your professors?”

“I like our mentor.”

“You’re enjoying Law so far?”

“It’s a lot of work.”

I let out a slow breath, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. I don’t know what answer I was hoping for. Just something more.Anything.

“How are the rest of the kids on your programme?”

“Smart. Everyone’s really smart.”

We both know what I really want to ask, but I can’t bring myself to spit it out. Sophie’s body language screams at me to stay away. And I don’t want to upset her, but I also don’t want her to suffer alone. She doesn’t want to be showered in gifts or flowers, so why won’t she let me help in the ways that matter?

“Do you want me to take you back to Harvard?” I ask despite the fear she’ll say yes.

She’s silent. I hold my breath. If she says yes, I’ll give her what she wants. I’ll drive her back without a word and let her slip away.

But she doesn’t say yes.

She exhales, barely a sound, and then whispers, “No.”

I spent hours researchingthe perfect hotel, and it looks exactly like the kind of place Sophie would love. A façade of dark, weathered stone, intricately carved arches, ivy cascading over the edges of tall, mullioned windows.

The suite is beautiful, extravagant even, but it feels somehow too big, like it’s mocking the distance between Sophie and me. The four-poster bed, dark parquet floors, alabaster lamps spilling soft cream light, the gilded edges of the mirrors, the richness of the emerald bed drapes. None of it fills the emptiness gaping between us.

To one side, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the Charles River flowing glossy and black, and beyond it, glimmering with city lights, the spired skyline of Cambridge. Even the air smells expensive: fresh-cut lilies and crisp champagne. A perfect place for a perfect weekend.

Except it isn’t. Because even though Sophie’s here, sheisn’t.

I follow her to the windows, where she’s pushing aside the full-length muslin curtains to peer outside. I take her shoulders, forcing her to drop the curtain and face me.

“Sophie. Can we talk about what happened?”

She doesn’t meet my eyes. She shakes her head, pulls herself out of my grip, and retreats towards the enormous bed.

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“I can see that, butIdo.”

She finally looks up, a hint of resentment and anger flashing in her dark brown eyes.

“So?”

She says it so derisively, so bitingly, that I would be cut to the quick—if I wasn’t aware of exactlywhatshe’s doing.

“I don’t want to argue,” I say softly. I walk over to the bed and kneel in front of her, looking up. “I want to make sure you’re okay. Look, I know Max, and he’s a total piece of shit. I didn’t realise he was in your class.”

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