Page 33 of Spearcrest Queen

The days fly by, measured out in casebooks, case pages, the glow of my laptop screen. Comparative Legal Systems. Corporate Finance. Negotiation and Mediation. Exams come and go, and I don’t even have time to celebrate before the next impossible mountain is looming on the horizon.

Because with each passing day, the charity gala in New York looms closer. Mr Park has mentioned it so many times now that it’s become a phantom presence in the classroom, hovering over our shoulders, shaking its shackles.

Some of us seem more ready than others. Some students already know many of the prominent figures who’ll be attending. Alice Liu, an intimidatingly clever Chinese-American heiress, even has an aunt who’s in the association.

Apparently, she had a list of crucial information on all the most important guests who’ll be in attendance. Some students are trying to enter into an alliance with her, but Alice is a cool and calculated young woman: she’ll only share her information with someone she thinks can give her something of equal value in return.

One afternoon after class, she approaches me while I’m finishing up typing some notes on my laptop. She stands with one hip leaning on my desk, arms crossed over a stack of pristine books, waiting for me to finish. When I look up at her, she tilts her head, mirror-smooth black hair shifting on her shoulders.

“Is it true you’re dating Eleanor Knight’s son?”

I resist the urge to roll myeyes.

“No. We sort of dated while we were in school, that’s it.”

She seems surprised at that, widening her eyes slightly. “You went to Spearcrest Academy?”

Shit. Of course these rich kids all know about each other—my fault for not being careful. I inwardly kick myself, but what’s the point in lying now?

“Yes, I did,” I answer bluntly, packing away my things. I stand and stare down at Alice, who’s lithe and graceful as a dancer, and a full head shorter than me. “I’m not dating him, and I don’t know Mrs Knight, or anything like that. So whatever it is you’re hoping I can give you, I don’t have it.” I smile coldly. “Anything else?”

Alice watches me in silence for a moment. I hold her gaze. Just like all the other girls in class, she’s drop-dead beautiful, with clear, glassy skin, perfect lips, and ink-black eyes. She’s wearing no make-up aside from a delicate caramel lip gloss and two tiny flicks of eyeliners to accentuate her eyes.

“I’m Alice,” she says, sticking out her hand and taking me completely by surprise.

I take her hand and shake it. Her fingers are cool and soft. “Sophie Sutton.”

“I know.” She straightens herself. “Mr Park lent me your briefon Palsgraf. Said it was the best example of clarity and reasoning he’s seen in years.”

For a second, I’m too taken aback to respond. The thought of Mr Park showing my work as a model to other students feels so far removed from the reality of my academic inadequacy that I can’t help but wonder if she’s simply lying.

But Alice continues in an almost dismissive tone. “Personally, I think Mr Park is biased, but I have to admit your analysis of Cardozo’s reasoning was impressive. Anyway.” She waves a hand; her fingernails are long and fine, white and nacreous. “How will you be getting to New York for the gala?”

“Train, probably.”

Alice flicks her perfect black hair over one shoulder and shrugs, casual as anything.

“Ugh, okay, well, you might as well ride with me. Give me your phone.”

I hand her my phone, and she types in her number. She saves her name as Alice Lian Liu, with an emoji of a white rabbit at the end. When she’s done, she leaves the classroom, two girls rushing to follow her, talking excitedly as they disappear down the corridor.

I stand, completely dumb-founded, my phone still in my palm.

“Making new friends?” a lazy voice says from behind me. “You’re going to make me jealous.”

I turn to find Dahlia sitting on a desk, legs crossed, toying with her emotional support vape pen. She’s wearing high-heeled boots that go up to her knees, a tiny skirt and a blood-red sweater, a ridiculous Tiffany diamond necklace shaped like a heart at her throat.

Hitching my bag over my shoulder, I make my way to the door, pausing when I pass her.

“I thought there was nothing wrong with being noticed?”

She smirks. There’s a dullness to her eyes that tells me she’s tired despite her relaxed posture, and she’s playing with her vape with the repetitive movements of a nervous habit.

“No, you’re right. And Alice Liu, of all people? Nice work. You’re just collecting rich admirers at this point.”

“Don’t worry, Dahlia,” I say, more on impulse than anything else, “you’re my favourite rich admirer.”

Something flickers on her face atmy words, something murky that might be smouldering anger or a strange, sensual satisfaction. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t wait for her response. I leave without looking back.

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