Page 6 of Spearcrest Prince

With a coquettish wave, she bounces elegantly away down the staircase and disappears from sight, leaving the rich scent of her perfume floating in her wake. I turn back to my canvas, letting out a deep breath.

So far, so good—right?

Now all I have left to do is prepare myself mentally for my first time going partying with the Spearcrest elite. My first time partying in London.

My first time partying away from the tiny safety net of my friends and my life in the south of France.

Later that afternoon, after I’ve given up painting and made my way back to my bedroom, a text pops up on my phone. It’s from Noël.

Noël:Tout va bien?

Anaïs:Oui.I’m partying this weekend.

Noël: You’re so cool!

Anaïs: Ha ha

Noël: Have fun,petite étoile. Stay out of trouble.

Anaïs: I always do.

Noël: Yeah, but it’s a different sky you’re shining in right now.

Anaïs: I’ll be careful.

Noël: “Okay.J’t’aime fort. À bientôt. x

I stare at the last words.Àbientôt. See you soon.

It’s the one thought holding me together. The thought I’ve been holding onto ever since I found out about the engagement, ever since I was forced to leave my home and friends behind and come here. It’s the thought that’s going to keep me going until the end of the year.

If everything goes according to plan.

Chapter 3

Le Toutou

Séverin

Londonisgrimy,crowdedand wildly overrated, but that’s why it’s a great place for losing yourself.

Around once a month, the elite of Spearcrest descend upon The Cyprian, one of London’s most exclusive clubs. We come in separate groups: me, Evan, Zachary, Iakov and Luca in one limousine, and our female counterparts in another: Seraphina Rosenthal, Kayana Kilburn, Giselle Frossard, Camille Alawi and the ice queen herself, Theodora Dorokhova.

We meet at the club at midnight. From there, there’s only one rule left: nobody can fuck someone else from Spearcrest. If someone breaks the rule, they pick up the tab for everybody else.

It's a fun rule not only because it forces everyone to play games, but because we also have to play the field.

It’s not a rule everybody enjoys, though. That’s why Evan and Zachary sit next to each other in a private booth, pulling faces like slapped asses.

The girl Evan wants isn’t here. She’s also as Spearcrest as it’s possible to get: the ball-busting prefect Sophie Sutton—but pigs will fly before she ever steps foot in a club. Or sleeps with Evan.

And as for Zachary, the person he wants is definitely here, but he’s not allowed to sleep with her.

Theodora Dorokhova isn’t called the ice queen for nothing. Rumour has it her father has a bounty on the head of anyone who lays a finger on her before she marries.

I guess all aristocratic families are as fucked up as mine. Arguably, mine isn’t so bad after all. At least I get to fuck who I want.

That thought cheers me up, but there’s no cheering up the heartsick duo. Even if I try, Evan will just look for an excuse to talk about Sophie—as if we can’t tell that every time he makes fun of her, he’s really saying he wants her—and Zachary will end the night as he usually does… drunk and locked in some raging debate with Theodora about whatever philosophical or academic question they are using to scratch away the itch of tension between them.

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