Page 64 of Spearcrest Prince

“Myochresocks.”

“Just say yellow.”

“But they’re not yellow.”

I roll my eyes. “You artists are so goddamn pretentious.”

“Is that why you’re glaring tiny daggers at me?”

“I’m not glaring anything at you.” I glare at her. “And if I was, it wouldn’t be tiny daggers. It would be sledgehammers.”

She laughs. “Big, thick, veiny sledgehammers.”

I stare at her over my glass of champagne, trying to resist her contagious laughter.

How can I reconcile the versions of Anaïs that exist in my mind?

Anaïs, the faceless fiancée. The daughter of billionaires, the fridge I was chained to when I was thrown into the ocean of this engagement. Anaïs as I pictured her before I ever met her, as some desperate social climber.

Then there’s the real Anaïs. Her ridiculous clothing and plain black hair. Anaïs, whose oddness keeps her at a distance from everybody. Anaïs, who refuses to let me gain the upper hand or have the last word, ever.

And finally, there’s the Anaïs that lives in my mind and refuses to be evicted.

She’s the girl in the club, dressed in sequins and dancing gracelessly in shifting colours. The girl who pulled me boldly away from the dancefloor and begged me so prettily in the coat room. The girl I pinned to the forest floor and stole a kiss from. The girl who squirmed and whimpered when I made her come on my tongue.

They’re all the same girl, and it would seem I’m obsessed with her.

“Why did you go to the club that night in London?” I ask suddenly.

If she’s surprised by the question, she doesn’t show it. She shrugs. “Kay invited me. I thought it might be a good idea to be nice.”

“Is that why you danced with me that night? To be nice?”

She raises her eyebrows. “You approached me, remember?”

“But I didn’t know who you were.”

“Neither did I.”

I stare at her. Part of me wants to tell her the truth. That I wish I hadn’t found out who she was, that I wish I’d still fucked her even after finding out. That I regret how I behaved that night, that I regret every chance I had at having her, being with her.

That I wanted her then and still want her now.

“If you hadn’t found out who I was,” I say, “if we didn’t know—would you… ?”

My voice falters. The question hangs in the air, unfinished. Anaïs gazes at me. Like I always do, I wish I could read her expression.

“Would I what?” she says.

“You know what I’m trying to ask.”

“Are you really asking me if we would have had sex that night?”

I glare at her. “Yes, trésor. That’s obviously what I’m asking.”

She sighs. “Obviouslywe would have.”

My chest tightens at her words. I don’t know what answer I expected from her, but this was certainly not it. Her lack of expression combined with her disturbing honesty is a weapon that somehow strikes true every time.

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