Page 14 of Spearcrest Prince

“Mm.” Iakov gives a noncommittal grunt. “No Novus stocks for you, huh?”

“No.”

We finish our cigarettes without speaking. Iakov’s tone might be rough and biting at times, but he also knows the value of silence. Unlike Zachary, who would be giving me his opinions in the most slicing and harsh terms possible, or Evan, who would get drunk and commiserate with me, Iakov is perfectly happy to leave me to my thoughts.

Which is a blessing and a curse right now.

Because my thoughts are a complete mess, a chaotic storm. I’m thinking about Anaïs’s stupid sequined skirt glittering in the club, the way she grabbed me by my belt to pull me off the dancefloor, the way she arched against me and shamelessly asked for what she wanted.

It was hot while it was happening—a great quality to find in some random girl at a London club—but in a fiancée, completely inappropriate.

Because no matter how I think about it, there are only two possibilities: either Anaïs knew who I was and was just trying to play mind games with me with her shitty attempt at seduction, or she genuinely didn’t realise who I was and was perfectly willing to cheat onme, her fiancé, withme, some random guy she pulled at a club.

Either way, I’m furious.

There’s absolutely no way Anaïs couldn’t know who I am or wouldn’t have recognised me. We might not have met in person yet, but my face is plastered all over social media, gossip blogs and tabloids. Besides, I can’t imagine her parents wouldn’t have used my appearance as a selling point when talking her into this stupid engagement.

My parents certainly tried—I just refused to let them manipulate me so easily.

What if she’s not even who I think she is? Anaïs is a pretty common French name. What are the odds that a random girl named Anaïs would have just started at Spearcrest at the same time as my fiancée with the same name? That’s my favourite theory, the most calming of them all.

Unfortunately, I don’t get to hold on to it for very long.

IakovandIfinishour cigarettes, throwing the butts into a puddle gathered between the cobblestones of the alley, then head back into the club.

We’re crossing a dim corridor when one of the bathroom doors opens, and a girl slips out. Her shoulder-length hair is tucked behind her ears, and her sequined skirt glitters even in the low light. She’s quite tall, a little gangly—the figure of a volleyball player without any of the athleticism or grace.

Her steps falter when she sees us, and Iakov’s head tilts ever so slightly in interest. Is he looking at her because he realises she’s the girl from the bet—mynew girl, as he put it—or because he’s checking her out? It’s hard to tell with Iakov. A sudden impulse makes me raise my hand and give the girl the middle finger.

Her dark eyes widen in surprise, and then she scrunches her face and returns the gesture, hurrying past us.

“Your outfit is garbage!” I call after her because I’d rather die than let her have the last word—or last middle finger, in this case.

She turns her head and replies in a deceptively sweet voice. “So was your kissing technique.”

I give her my iciest smirk. “Still got you wet, though.”

“Pas vraiment,” she says airily, turning her back on me.

“Sale menteuse!” I call after her.

“Gros bourgeois.”

“Michto!”

“Crapule!”

She disappears through the double doors in a burst of light and music. In her wake, silence reigns in the corridor. My chest is heaving, annoyance coursing through me. I can’t believe she got the last word. I have half a mind to follow her into the club and drag her back out just so we can carry on exchanging insults.

But Iakov’s gaze rests on me like the suspended blade of a guillotine.

“So you’ve met the fiancée, then,” he says.

It’s hard to miss the amusement in his voice, if only by virtue of the fact that Iakov is normally about as full of expression as a slab of marble. I whip my head around to pierce him with a venomous glare.

“You knew?”

He shrugs. “Why else would Luca convince you to fuck her?”

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