Part 1 – Autumn
Sophie
assembly hall and take a long, deep breath. The smell of fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle fills my lungs. It’s the first day of the autumn term, but it still smells like summer.
This is my last year at Spearcrest. Even though I started here halfway through high school, it still feels as if I’ve spent a lifetime here. When my parents got jobs in the admin team and managed to get me a place here, they’d considered it a blessing. Never would I otherwise have had the opportunity to attend one of the most prestigious academic institutions in Europe. Never would I have been able to rub elbows with the sons and daughters of millionaires and aristocrats.
Except it hasn’t turned out to be quite the dream I was sold. The campus is something straight out of a fairy tale, the education is world-class, the teachers exceptional.
Everything else… not so much.
Still. This is my last year.
I’ve made it this far—the finishing line is finally in sight. All I have to do now is keep my head down, focus on my exams and university applications, and then I’m free.
Free to leave Spearcrest, get as far away as possible from its claustrophobic world of elitism, nepotism and narcissism.
Loud noises interrupt my thoughts and I close my eyes, bracing myself for impact.
Walking up the path towards the assembly hall with their shirts untucked and their carefully curated nonchalance are the so-called Young Kings of Spearcrest. Luca Fletcher-Lowe, Iakov Kavinski, Séverin Montcroix, Zachary Blackwood and Evan Knight.
Combined, their five families are wealthier than the rest of England put together. And that’s something they don’t let you forget. Their straight postures and easy manners are only this relaxed because they know they’ll never have to face consequences for anything they do as long as they live. Their sleeves are only rolled back to show off their obscenely expensive watches.
Every careless little thing they do is calculated to project wealth and power.
I glance at the tower clock. They’re fifteen minutes late to assembly. Although I make a quick note of it, I say nothing as they approach. I might be a prefect, and I might hate the way they think rules don’t apply to them, but I’m not about to draw their attention or their displeasure.
I know better.
Instead, I keep my head down, eyes glued to the clipboard propped against my legs. I stand utterly still, like a trapped rabbit playing dead while it waits for prowling wolves to pass it by.
If only things were that easy.
“Mr Fletcher-Lowe!” roars a stony voice from behind my shoulder. “Mr Kavinski, Mr Montcroix, Mr Blackwood and Mr Knight!”
Shit. I push myself back against the red brick wall, hoping and praying that the headmaster, Mr Ambrose, doesn’t drag me into this skirmish.
“This is the first assembly of your final year here upon the hallowed grounds of Spearcrest. Is this how you want to begin such an important year?”
The self-titled Young Kings might run Spearcrest all they like, but even they have no choice but to bend the knee in front of Mr Ambrose. An alumnus of the school and its headmaster for the past fifteen years, Mr Ambrose rules with an iron fist. Unlike all the teachers at Spearcrest, Mr Ambrose isn’t one bit scared of the Kings’ parents.
And that makes him untouchable.
Unlike me.
“My Kavinski, tuck your shirt in—and try not to get into any fights this year. Mr Montcroix, that tie is not a fashion accessory, and those fanciful rings are in direct violation of the dress code policy. Mr Knight, must you forever look as though you’ve just emerged from some brawl in a village pub?”
With great reluctance, the boys obey Mr Ambrose and grudgingly fix their uniforms. I hardly dare breathe. So far, it seems my presence has been completely forgotten.
I can only pray and hope it remains so.
If only my luck was that good.
“Miss Sutton,’ Mr Ambrose booms, ‘you have the lateness register. Write down all their names, and log an hour’s detention for every late-comer. Now, let us hurry inside, gentlemen. Welcome to your final year at Spearcrest.”
He pivots on his heels and disappears through the entrance. I keep my eyes down, waiting for the boys to follow him inside.
Another prayer that goes completely ignored.
“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” Luca says, looming over me. “Put that pen down.”
I hold both the pen and the clipboard up as a sign of capitulation. “Right, right, okay. Just go on in.”
“You better hope my name doesn’t end up on the detention register,” Luca continues, leaning down so his face is right in front of mine. ‘Or we’re going to be very upset with you.’
I hate having my personal space invaded. I hate it more than anything else. I try to suppress my anger, though, because I’m not stupid. I know he’s waiting for me to slip up.
“Okay, Luca,” I say, looking down.
He pats my head.
“Good girl, good girl.”
“Come on, Luca,” Evan Knight calls. He’s leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets. His loose sandy curls fall over his forehead, his blue eyes fixed on me. “She’s not worth your time.”
This time, I look up. I meet his gaze, hatred burning through me.
Because no matter how much I hate the Young Kings of Spearcrest, it’s Evan Knight I hate the most. He might have everyone fooled with his crooked grin, his natural athleticism and his care-free laughter.
In reality, it’s all a facade, a perfect illusion. I should know.
I used to be his friend.
Evan
months since I’ve last seen Sophie, and she looks completely different than I remember. For some reason, in my memories, she always looks like she did when we first met in Year 9. Brown hair in pigtails, spotty cheeks, feet slightly too big for her body.
Back then, she used to stick out like a sore thumb. It was so easy to tell she wasn’t from money, that she was… normal. Common as they come.
Now, she looks more Spearcrest than she would care to admit. With her impeccable uniform, those shiny badges on her blazer lapel. Her long, straight hair parted in the middle, her thick-framed glasses. She’s not so spotty anymore, and she grew from the feet up. She’s one of the tallest girls in our year.
That’s probably why I can’t stop staring at her.
I don’t even hear a word Mr Ambrose says. I just stare at Sophie in a mixture of fascination and curiosity.
She’s holding her clipboard propped against her long legs, her eyes stuck firmly to it. I remember when she used to glare in the face of anybody who dared look down on her, how she used to pick fights with anyone that made her feel small.
Now, she’s tall and striking, but she never looks anybody in the eyes. She just keeps her head down and glides in the background of Spearcrest like a ghost.
When Mr Ambrose tells her to put our names down, there’s a tiny flash of panic on her face. She knows the consequences of Mr Ambrose’s words will be hers to face. Unlike Mr Ambrose, she has no authority to keep her safe from us.
In fact, the moment Mr Ambrose goes inside, she assures Luca she’s not going to write our names down.
For some reason, my stomach churns. It’s not like I didn’t work hard over the years to put out the fight in her. So now she’s so easily defeated, where is the sense of triumph I’ve been waiting for?
Then Luca’s face is right against Sophie’s, and the churning in my stomach turns to spikes of ice, almost painful. A brutal instinct roars through me, makes me want to grab Luca by the neck and yank him away from her. I can’t stand him getting close to Sophie.
I can’t stand anybody getting close to her.
“Come on, Luca. She’s not worth your time.”
She looks up then, for the first time. Her eyes are so dark they look black, but they are actually a soft, hazelnut brown. In sunlight, they are almost limpid, like dark honey.
But right now they are just dark. Dark and hard and full of hate.
A hot flame of triumph leaps in my chest. My blood pumps through my veins when her gaze collides with mine. The sharp, defiant look in her eyes makes me want to go toe-to-toe with her, to fight her to the death.
It makes me want to rip everything that separates us just so I can rip into her.
“You’re right,” Luca guffaws, turning his back on Sophie. “Wouldn’t want to give her the attention she so clearly craves.”
Her eyes leave mine and pierce the back of Luca’s head. Oh, she hates him too, she can’t even hide it. But the thought of her hating Luca more than me fills me with fury.
I don’t want her looking at him like that. I don’t want her looking at him at all. I want her to look at me, to focus all her hatred on me. I can’t get enough of her hatred, and I’m not about to share it with Luca.
“It’s not like she’s ever going to get anything better than attention though, is it?” I say lightly. “Guess most guys don’t wanna fuck desperate little social climbers.”
My friends reward me with bellows of laughter.
Her eyes meet mine. There are no tears in them, not even pain.
There’s nothing in them but pure, raw, delicious hatred.
I turn and follow the others inside the assembly hall. This is not the first, or the only, or the last heinous thing I’ve said to her or about her. But I can’t stop myself. I can’t get enough of her hatred—it’s like I’m addicted to it.
And I’ve only got one more year of getting my fill before I’m cut off forever.
Might as well make it count.
