Page 6 of Spearcrest Queen

I sip my coffee, distracted, mind working, senses overwhelmed. The restaurant smells of truffle oil and expensive perfume and musky leather and chilled martinis. The windows frame the high street like a jewel box, the sunlight and buildings glistening, a pristine, expensive display, casting moving dapples of light across the table.

How soon can I make an excuse to leave without offending them? If I leave too early and hurt their precious feelings, then I’ll have endured this for nothing. The sacrifice needs to be worth it.

“Don’t make comments on her body,” Dahlia is saying.

“I didn’t comment on her body,” Maximilian replies. “I commented on her order.”

“Why didyouall apply for the DART programme, then?” I cut in, tired of letting them speak over me like I’m barely even here. I gesture at their drinks. “Apart from the alcohol, obviously.”

Unsurprisingly, Maximilian is first to answer. He leans back in his seat, toying with the signet ring on his pinkie.

“To prove they’d let anyone in.”

I force a neutral expression, but my stomach twists with cold antipathy. Of course he’d think that. For someone like Maximilian, even ambition is just another rich kid game.

“Right,” I say, tilting my head. “How generous. Giving someone else the chance to feel like a total failure.” The jab is subtle, but I see his expression falter for a fraction of a second. It’s not much, but it’s enough to soothe the repressed disdain in my chest. “Good line, anyway.”

Anthony snorts without looking up from his phone. Dahlia raises her martini glass and takes a little sip, dark eyes darting between me and Maximilian, whose smile tightens, the glint inhis eye sharpening. His eyes are a pale shade of brown, almost grey, and devoid of any warmth.

“Lines,” he says, leaning back in his seat, “are for those who don’t have natural charm to rely on.”

“Or a trust fund,” I add in my sweetest tone. Maximilian’s eyes move over me slowly, as though he’s properly noticing me now. My skin crawls, and I resist the urge to cringe instinctively away in my chair. “So what’s your plan once you breeze through law school, then? Clerkship? Big Law?”

Dahlia rolls her eyes and answers my question herself. “Max isn’t going to work a day in his life.”

“And Dahlia’s gonna fuck her way up to the top,” Maximilian says, eyes finally sliding away from me.

“Only if your dad lets me out of his bed,” she replies tartly. Then, turning her large dark eyes back to me, she says, “I’m here because I want to do corporate law. You can’t change the world without capital, and you can’t gain capital without learning how to manipulate it.” She turns back to Maximilian. “Your dad taught me that last time, right after he came on my face.”

Maximilian’s veneer doesn’t crack—it dims, a little, darkens—and he smiles at Dahlia, showing picture-perfect teeth. “Therapy’s going well, huh?”

Dahlia huffs, shaking her head slightly, smooth hair bouncing against her cheeks and chin. She looks older than the rest of us but so beautiful it hurts. Ignoring Maximilian, she turns back to me.

“So what about you?” She curls her lip in what I would describe as the exact opposite of a smile. “You’ve come to Harvard to, let me guess, save the world?”

My stomach is in knots. I hate this, I realise. I hate this lunch, these rich kids, their grotesque iteration of friendship. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the pointed remarks—it allfeels false, overwrought, suffocating. My legs bounce beneath the table, restless with the urge to run, to get out of here. But I force myself to stay still, to endure the moment.

I’ve gotten through worse.

“Nothing wrong with wanting to help others,” I tell Dahlia, because she’s staring at me, and I can’t just sit there and say nothing.

Dahlia and Maximilian exchange a glance, not even bothering to conceal the rolling of their eyes. They might barely like each other, but their friendship is at its strongest when it’s based on their common disdain for others.

Nothing new here.

Anthony, finally looking up from his phone, says, “I’m here for the same reason as you, Sonya.”

“Sophie.”

“Sure.”

I drop it. I know all too well that the more handsome the smile, the more venomous the bite.

“You’re here to save the world?” I say drily.

“Nah.” He half-tosses his phone across the table, making the glasses and silverware rattle, and leans across to grab half my sandwich off my plate. “I’m here because I’m just gagging for validation.”

By the time theafternoon seminars end, the sun has gone down, and I’m so drained I can barely keep my knees from buckling.

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