22. Checkmate
22
Checkmate
Sophie
When I first entered the gala, I felt like a young soldier, a fresh, nervous recruit stepping out onto a battlefield of marble and gold, every sound and smell an assault on my senses, every diamond-strewn figure a faceless enemy.
But I was wrong.
The gala isn’t a battlefield; it’s a chessboard.
Every piece has its own value, its own moveset, its own importance.
There are pawns and rooks and bishops and queens and kings.
Any piece can be conquered, if I know how to.
Because I’m not a piece on the chessboard: I’m the player standing above it.
I’m deep in conversation with two partners from a Manhattan firm when Alice Liu sidles up to me, making an excuse to steal me away.
The men nod and smile, and I feel their eyes follow us as Alice draws me in the direction of the bar, where she turns to me with a knowing look.
“Well?” I ask, tipping my chin up.
Alice’s lips quirk, gleaming with a fresh coat of caramel gloss.
There’s a delicate glint of approval in her otherwise cool expression.
“Having fun?” she asks.
“Yes.” The truth surprises me.
“I didn’t think I would.”
She orders two cocktails and leans one elbow against the bar, turning to look at me properly.
“ I did.” She tilts her head, a perfectly polished gesture of girlish coyness.
“Us private school girls are practically genetically engineered for nights like these.”
I’ve never before considered myself a private school girl, and hearing her say it makes something click inside my head.
Alice Liu isn’t associating with me because she thinks I might be a wolf.
She’s associating with me because she knows I am—because we were both shaped by the same ruthless environments.
“Hm.” I let out a low chuckle, relaxing back against the bar next to Alice and nodding towards the crowd.
“Well, what did you make of it all?”
Alice scoffs, scanning the crowd with the eyes of a doll and the mordant gaze of a predator.
“Judge Caldwell is more impressed with himself than anyone else, which makes him easy to flatter but difficult to impress, since his greatest admirer will always be himself.”
I laugh, taking the cocktail Alice hands me.
“Groves keeps asking his younger associates if they’re passionate about litigation like a Dickensian headmaster testing his pupils.”
Alice’s narrowed eyes glitter through perfectly curled eyelashes.
“Olivia Langley eats men’s testicles for breakfast, and since you come across like you enjoy a similar diet, she’ll probably offer you a summer position before the night’s over.” She takes a tiny sip, then tilts her head.
“She might have competition. Looks like Eleanor Knight’s got her eye on you.”
My head snaps towards the far side of the room, where Mrs Knight stands—but doesn’t move.
She looks composed and radiant, dressed in grey silk and pearls, effortlessly elegant with her hair coiled at the back of her head.
The conversation around her ebbs and flows like waves lapping at the feet of a marble statue.
She catches my eye, and, to my complete surprise, she winks.
The small, private smile that follows is warm, almost proud.
You’re doing great , it seems to say.
Well done, sweetheart .
I smile back, and she looks away with a smooth turn of her head.
I follow her gaze and my heart stills, my stomach exploding into flutters.
Evan is walking up to his mother: he stoops his head to receive her kiss on his cheek.
For a moment, I allow myself the sheer lavish indulgence of watching him.
His tuxedo is black, tailored to his broad shoulders and muscular limbs, paired with a crisp white shirt, undone at the collar—no tie, no bow, no pretentiousness.
It reminds me of the way he used to wear his Spearcrest uniform, with the carelessness of a young sylvan god.
A fine chain glitters at his throat.
His hair looks like he simply brushed his hand through it, one hand is in his pocket, and there’s an easy smile on his face as he talks to his mother.
If his mother’s the marble statue on the surf, Evan’s the laughing golden idol at her side.
And he’s so beautiful it makes my breath catch.
Before I can tear my gaze away, his mother says something that makes him look up.
His eyes find mine with the pin-point precision of a sniper’s scope .
For a moment, we just watch one another, indulging in the simple pleasure of just looking .
I raise my glass ever so slightly to him, and on impulse, I turn towards the bar, leaning against it and arching ever so slightly to give Evan a glimpse of my back.
I throw him a look over my shoulder: his mouth is curled at one corner.
He looks me slowly up and down, sending a warm tickle up my spine.
He gives me an appreciative nod and raises his hand in an ‘okay’ sign before stuffing it back into his pocket.
We both look away at the same time.
“Sophie Sutton, you naughty girl.” Alice Liu’s pretty voice is smooth and amused.
“You lied to my face.”
I shrug and swirl the ice in my drink.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“How Harvard of you.” Alice taps my wrist with the back of her knuckles.
“Come on, drink. You’ve earned it. They’re about to announce the final donations, and after that, we’re officially off the clock.”
I take a deep sip of my cocktail, savouring the bittersweet liquid on my tongue.
Tipping my head back, I let out a long, low breath, emptying my lungs, settling into the moment, letting myself enjoy the distant murmur of conversation, the glimmering of chandeliers, the warm afterburn of alcohol.
My eyes catch on a familiar face, and for a moment, the present dissolves like I’ve stepped through time, Spearcrest flashing back into focus.
Seraphina Rosenthal stands across the ballroom, the perfect blonde princess, wearing a sheer gown in the most delicate shade of gold.
She looks like she might have stepped off the cover of Vogue , but at the same time, she doesn’t quite look as polished as she used to be at Spearcrest. Her silk gloves have been embellished with tiny gold safety pins and her diamond-studded earrings climb all the way up the shells of her ears.
Even her signature blonde hair has been styled in an artfully messy updo, golden wisps framing her doll face.
She looks disgustingly rich, yes, but almost edgy, too, the way only expensive fashion school girls can.
Her eyes meet mine and widen with recognition.
She looks me up and down slowly and I smirk, lifting my eyebrows in a silent question—a challenge, maybe.
She hated me in Spearcrest, and she never missed an opportunity to remind me I didn’t belong there.
And yet now, we’re both at the same gala.
To my surprise, she crosses the ballroom towards me, balancing a glass of rosé in one hand.
When she reaches me, she tilts her head.
“Of all the people I expected to see tonight,” she says.
“Sophie Sutton.”
I shrug.
“It’s a Harvard Law School alums’ event. I’m a Harvard Law School student.”
“God, you were bad enough in Spearcrest,” Seraphina says with an amused scoff.
“You’re going to be unbearable now you’re in Harvard.”
“I hope so.”
“Ugh.” She laughs.
“You haven’t changed one bit.” She looks me up and down again.
“You’re still the same stone-cold bitch.” And then she raises her glass up to mine.
“You’re going to make a killer lawyer.”
I laugh, too, tapping my glass to hers.
As we drink, a young man steps up behind Seraphina.
He’s dark-haired, grey-eyed, broad, rough around the edges—someone who doesn’t belong here but doesn’t care one bit .
The tux he’s wearing fits him well, but it doesn’t soften him.
He’s got the build of a fighter, big shoulders and lazy confidence, knuckles rough and a faint purple bruise circling his left eye.
So this is him , the infamous amateur boxer that almost cost Seraphina her pristine reputation.
She turns slightly when she feels him, her manicured hand gliding up and down his arm like a princess acknowledging a loyal knight.
“Sophie, this is Noah Watson,” she says, eyes flashing up to mine.
“Noah, Sophie Sutton.”
I glance between them, noting the way her fingers curl against his wrist, scratching slightly, the way his other hand rests against the small of her back, protective yet affectionate.
“Nice to meet you, Noah.” I extend my hand.
“You caused quite the scandal at Spearcrest.”
“Yeah.” Noah snorts a laugh and shakes my hand.
“I heard.”
His grip is firm and warm; there’s something inherently friendly about him, but also supremely laid-back, like he’s completely certain of his place in the world and feels no need to justify himself or his existence.
Seraphina, on the other hand, rolls her eyes at me.
“Like you didn’t have plenty of scandals of your own.”
“Well, it paid off in the end, didn’t it?” I glance from Seraphina to Noah, and back to her.
“For the both of us, it looks like.”
“Definitely paid off for me ,” Noah interjects with a grin.
And he curls his arm around Seraphina’s waist and hauls her up to him, forcing her to hold on to his shoulder, rosé splashing over the rim of her glass.
He kisses her full on the mouth and she gasps and melts into laughter, girlish giggles so profoundly embarrassing I have the total certainty Seraphina Rosenthal is hopelessly, disgustingly in love .
“Nice to meet you,” Noah tells me before turning away, Seraphina still pressed up to him.
“Come on, princess,” he mutters roughly as he strides away.
“Remember the promise you made me? Time to pay up.”
“Not here!” I hear Seraphina giggle.
“No way!”
“We’ll see,” is the last thing I hear Noah say before the two of them disappear through the crowd.
I only realise I’m still smiling to myself when the quiet jazz fades and a microphone crackles to life, bringing me back to the moment.
A polite chime rings through the ballroom, calling for attention.
The murmurs hush, glasses are lowered.
The host, a white-blonde woman in a sequined dress the palest shade of violet, steps onto the stage.
“And now,” she announces, “we’d like to take a moment to express our gratitude to the generous benefactors whose contributions have made this evening so impactful. These pledges will help fund scholarships, legal aid initiatives, and opportunities for students who, like so many in this room, are dedicated to the pursuit of justice.”
Alice rolls her eyes at me.
I smile, half-listening as the donations are announced, amounts of money that don’t even feel real, punctuated by bursts of polite clapping.
“$100,000 from Robert Rosenthal. $250,000 from Holloway & Finch. $500,000 from the Knight Family Foundation.”
“Your boyfriend should recommend me to his family’s PR team,” Alice murmurs in my ear.
“They’re good.”
This time, it’s my turn to roll my eyes at her .
Then the host’s voice rings out again, clear and bright.
“And we have an incredibly generous pledge from first-time donor Miss Sophie Sutton—$50,000! Thank you so much for your generosity, Miss Sutton!”
Another burst of applause.
It fills the room, a crisp avalanche of approval.
Hands clapping against silk and diamonds, polite murmurs of admiration.
Someone near the bar turns their head to look at me.
Then another.
A slow ripple of whispers spreads through the room as everyone turns to look at me.
No escaping: they all know exactly who to look at, because I’ve spent the last few hours introducing myself to all of them, making sure they’d remember me.
Logically, I know what’s supposed to happen next.
I’m supposed to smile graciously, nod, accept my role as tonight’s newest philanthropist.
But I can’t.
I can’t even breathe.
My mind loops the same three thoughts: This isn’t real.
I never wrote a card.
I never signed my name.
This isn’t real.
I didn’t fill out a donation card.
How could I? I can’t afford it.
My eyes sweep the crowd, uncomprehending, searching without knowing what I’m looking for.
Searching for an answer, an explanation.
And then I see Max, standing near the bar, watching me.
Arms crossed, champagne in hand, satisfied smile carved into his pale face.
He lifts a hand. Not a wave—more of a salute.
A tiny, almost absent-minded flick of his fingers.
A chill creeps down my spine.
Why is he—
Then I see what’s behind him.
The donation table.
Dahlia, lounging against it, her arm wrapped around Anthony’s waist, his chin resting on her head.
The pledge cards, neatly stacked.
The pen still in Max’s hand.
Oh .
The ballroom’s gilded splendour closes in on me, the most opulent cage that ever was.
Max watches me like a cat watching the bird it’s only half-killed.
Death would be too clean, wouldn’t it?
His expression is almost affectionate, like he knows I won’t— can’t —do anything.
He tilts his head, watching, waiting.
Like everyone else in the room, waiting to see what I’ll do next.