20. Tasting Blood
20
Tasting Blood
Sophie
New York at night is a strange mix of contradictions: expansive yet claustrophobic, darkness pressing in while lights refract off glass towers, the night painted black and gold.
Outside the Empyrean, black cars glide up one after the other, doors swinging open to reveal another titan of industry, another legend of the legal world, another woman in a dress worth more than my tuition.
Alice’s driver drops us off just a few steps from the grand entrance, where uniformed attendants are ushering guests inside.
The pre-drinks at Nadine’s are still burning in my bloodstream, but the ride into the city—Alice coolly running me through the guest list, handing me information like a general prepping a soldier for battle—has sobered me up.
“A few people to keep in mind,” she’d said.
“Charlotte Reeve—founding partner at Blackthorne the colour of the champagne matches the shade of her eyeshadow almost perfectly.
“To tasting blood,” she says.
I tap my glass to hers.
“To spitting out the bones.”
We drink and break apart.
I roam the crowd with my eyes.
Now that I’m standing in the thick of it, I realise just how much I’ve underestimated the scale of this event.
The weight of wealth and legacy lies heavy here, almost crushing.
For a moment, my throat tightens.
Then I spot a familiar face.
Mr Park stands near the gilded entrance hall, smiling and at ease amid a cluster of guests.
He’s wearing a charcoal-grey suit, tailored meticulously.
A hint of slate-blue silk peeks from his pocket square, complementing the cool silver of his cufflinks: understated yet elegant, like everything about him.
His clever eyes sweep the room before settling on mine, narrowing with something akin to satisfaction.
And then he smiles.
“Sophie,” he calls out.
“I was just talking about you.”
I draw closer, licking my lips, more nervous because it’s him.
Out of everyone in this room, Mr Park is the only person whose admiration I want rather than need.
The group around him watches me with interest. A tall woman with ruby earrings tilts her head, observing me with a studious gaze.
A man with greying hair and a navy Tom Ford tuxedo gives me a slow, assessing nod.
Another, a distinguished-looking older man with a cropped white beard, watches with the detached curiosity of a zoologist observing a specimen.
I recognise him instantly of course—Justice Caldwell.
Alice warned me about him: Second Circuit, deeply influential, very hard to please.
Mr Park gestures to each of them in turn.
“Sophie, allow me to introduce Daniel Groves, senior partner at Holloway he’s never once expressed this to me.
Does he really mean it, or is this part of a political play?
If the DART programme is drawing criticism, maybe Mr Park isn’t so much praising me as trying to validate the programme itself.
But then, just as I start to take a half-step back, politely preparing to melt into the background, Mr Park turns slightly, angling himself towards me.
“Sutton,” he says, in that probing way that means he’s about to put me on the spot.
“I recall a rather pointed argument you made in your essay on Keller v. Ashwood. ”
I stare at him.
I’d submitted that essay months ago.
I barely remember it, and I wrote it myself.
He must have read hundreds of essays since.
He continues, unfazed.
“You argued that the ruling improperly expanded the doctrine of promissory estoppel and created more confusion than clarity in contract law. A provocative stance.” He lifts a black eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as if in invitation.
“Do you still stand by that? Or would you refine your position now, given the recent decision in Halloway Investments v. Dunne ?”
I freeze for a moment.
I hadn’t expected to be pulled into an actual legal discussion—not yet, not here, where I expected my conversations to lean more into sycophantic small talk than academic debate.
I can feel the weight of the group’s attention on me, the cool scrutiny of Justice Caldwell, the quiet curiosity of Olivia Langley, the assessing gaze of Daniel Groves.
I realise two things at the same time.
First, Mr Park’s praise of me is completely sincere.
Second, like everything in my world, it’s something I have to earn—and keep .
The old Sophie, the Sophie who used to stand in front of Spearcrest debating societies, spine straight and unyielding, mouth full of practised rhetoric devices and bold opinions, stirs to life.
I have the distinct impression that I’m being tested, but so what?
Haven’t I proven, time and time again, that I’m good at exams?
I push my shoulders back, lift my chin.
“Actually, Mr Park, I do stand by it. Keller v. Ashwood was meant to clarify the limits of promissory estoppel but instead it just blurred the distinction between reliance and consideration. The judgement’s reasoning was rooted more in equitable fairness than in contractual principle, which makes for a persuasive argument but an unstable precedent.”
Mr Park narrows his eyes ever so slightly, giving me pause.
My mind races, heartbeat matching the manic pace.
I internally punch myself for the pre-drinks I had with Alice.
“ However ,” I launch in recklessly, “I’ll admit that Halloway v. Dunne complicates my position.” Mr Park’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, corners curving upwards.
I continue more steadily.
“The court applied the same broad approach to promissory estoppel, but this time, in a commercial context, not an individual one. If the principle is consistently applied, then maybe Keller isn’t an outlier after all, but the beginning of a shift in how we view contractual obligations in an economy that’s increasingly dependent on good faith and long-term business relationships.”
Silence.
A pause, dense with consideration.
Over Mr Park’s shoulders, I notice Dahlia and Anthony walking past, arm in arm.
Dahlia, in a gold floor-length gown, holds up her champagne flute to me, a clear acknowledgement, and Anthony’s eyes glide over the people I’m standing with.
They’re letting me know they’re noticing me.
I don’t bother responding.
“That’s a neat little pivot,” Justice Caldwell says with a sniff.
“Perhaps it’s a career in politics you ought to consider instead, young lady.”
It’s a loaded comment, and American politics is the sort of serpent’s nest I’m not remotely ready to handle yet.
This could be a compliment as much as it could be an insult.
I contain myself to giving him a polite nod and a prim smile.
“Don’t listen to him,” Daniel Groves, the senior partner in the deep blue tux, says with a brisk laugh.
“This is the kind of argument that turns heads in a courtroom. Quick thinking. You did well.”
My heartbeat begins to settle.
I ease my shoulders, raise my flute to my lips.
I sip my champagne, remembering Alice Liu’s toast.
To tasting blood.
Mr Park excuses himself, but as he passes, he taps my elbow and murmurs, “Well argued, Sophie. I expected nothing less.”