Page 88 of Spearcrest Queen

At the end ofmy presentation, I accept my applause with a courteous smile, absorbing the reactions.

Dahlia is still tense and silent, hands clasped on her lap. Alice meets my gaze across the lecture hall, her lips curled, blinking her dark eyes with a mean, feline sort of approval. Some of my classmates from Harvard Law Review are on their feet, clapping uproariously. Some students are already on theirphones, typing out texts full of dramatic retellings and fresh gossip, ready to spread what they heard tonight far and wide.

Max hasn’t moved so much as a muscle.

His posture is still rigid, his usual sprawl gone. He says nothing; he can’t. There’s nothing left to say. His face, normally so full of smug amusement, is utterly blank.

Except for his eyes.

Those pale eyes are fixed on mine, unblinking, seething with emotion. Not fury, I realise. Not even hatred. But something closer to shock or dismay—something like realisation.

I can almost see the way it hits him, hard and slow, an avalanche, too inevitable to run, too powerful to fight. The game is over, he’s realising. There’s no counterattack he can make, no blow he can strike that will outmatch the blow I’ve just dealt him. I’ve won.

He’s been poking at me for almost two years trying to see if I’d bite, and I’ve ripped his head clean off.

A bloody kill, brutal and final.

He stands without addressing Dahlia, without even looking at her, or anybody else who’s watching him.

His throat bobs as he swallows, his fingers grip the edge of his seat. He leaves under the limelight of hundreds of eyes, getting the attention he’s always loved so much in the only way he could never enjoy. I watch his disappearing back and the door that closes on him.

And actually, I feel nothing for him.

No superiority, no hatred, not even pity. I’ve imagined this moment before—hundreds of times. I thought it would taste like a rich, complex wine on my tongue, but it doesn’t. It tastes as clean and cold and neutral as water.

Because the rush of triumph I feel in this moment isn’t the one I expected. It’s not the dizzying electric thrill of satisfied revenge.

It’s something quieter, calmer, deeper.

The odd, unexpected truth is that I don’t feel victorious because I crushed Maximilian Fitzpatrick. The victory comes from the fact that what I did wasright. I spoke up against those who abuse power, I used my voice for those who’ve been silenced.

For once, I was able to tilt the scales of power, even if just for a moment.

Equal investment, equal risk, equal pain and equal pleasure.

Evan had said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Maybe it was. Maybe I was the one making things harder than they had to be. For the first time, I finally know exactly where I’m going, what battles lie ahead of me.

And maybe I don’t have to face them all alone.

41

Gold & Steel

Evan

The KMG Annual LeadershipRetreat has always been a dull formality: a corporate parade of stiff suits, stiffer drinks, and dry conversation. Every year, I show up, smile and nod and shake hands, and wait for my chance to leave.

Not this year.

This year, I’m walking in with something real: Inkspill.

I just have to stay focused.

The formal sessions end by sundown on the first day. Most people, tired and bored out of their mind, head excitedly towards the cocktail reception in the main hall.

I head the opposite way, stepping outside.

The gardens are lush and sprawling. Manicured hedges, carved stone fountains, trellises dripping with wisteria. The last light of the sun casts everything in a hazy sort of gold, the sky soft and bruised, dusk creeping over the horizon, as dark and sultry as Sophie invading my thoughts.

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