24. Cold Food
24
Cold Food
Sophie
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
But no one ever talks about the hunger that comes before.
Six months ago, I left New York in ruins.
I didn’t give myself time to wallow, and I got to work with a vengeance.
Now, I should be returning to Harvard with a sense of achievement.
My summer was a series of victories: I claimed the KMG internship, sharpened my skills, left behind an impeccable impression.
I secured an offer for next summer and cultivated a new web of connections.
I made enough money to stop feeling that gnawing pressure in the pit of my stomach.
Even made some friends—unexpected, but useful.
My new apartment in Cambridge is beautiful, shared with two girls: Elle Sinclair, a fellow Law intern I met at KMG, and her friend Solana Castillo, a third-year Finance student.
By all accounts, it’s the best start to the year I could possibly ask for.
It would be, if not for the open wound in my chest.
The last night I saw him, Evan told me that Spearcrest left a wound inside me, and that he was the knife still stuck inside, keeping it from healing.
He was right, but not in the way he thought.
He wasn’t keeping the wound open; he was holding it shut.
And now the blade is gone, and the wound isn’t healing at all.
It’s gaping open, red and angry, pouring blood.
Spring burst into summer, and summer faded into fall; I’ve not stopped bleeding.
I could’ve accepted this, if I had been the one to wield the knife.
If I had made the choice to end it.
But I didn’t. The knife was yanked away before I was ready—ripped out when the wound was at its sorest and most tender, ripped out by the same hands that pushed me to the edge in the first place.
Maximilian Fitzpatrick.
Dahlia Lindenfeld.
Anthony Harrington.
I don’t distinguish between perpetrators and accomplices, and I don’t care about what they did at the gala, not really.
It’s been six months—almost half a year.
Humiliation fades. Pain dulls.
Any advantage they might have taken from me by publicly humiliating me, I’ll earn back.
They’re not special enough to leave permanent scars.
But they cost me Evan .
For that, they’re going to pay.
Revenge isn’t a plan, a choice.
It’s a deep dark hunger, a hollow pit that demands to be filled.
The dish may be served cold, so long as it’s rich enough to satisfy my hunger.
And I intend to feast.
All through my first year, all I did was try to pacify them.
Play along. Appease them.
Allow myself to be the mouse the cats toyed with for their amusement, because I thought it would keep me out of the line of fire.
I thought if I stayed quiet enough, careful enough, they’d get bored.
They didn’t.
But I was wrong all along.
I’m not a mouse for them to toy with.
I’m a wolf, and it’s time to hunt.
I meet Alice Liu at Nadine’s at six at the end of our first week back.
The bar-restaurant, our favourite haunt in Cambridge, is the perfect place for good food and boozy debriefs.
The ceiling is strung with lanterns, their reflections pooling across the tables like scattered pearls.
Alice is already seated when I arrive, settled into the curve of a leather banquette.
Her hair is black as wet ink, her cream tweed dress pristine, her matching Chanel purse resting beside her like an obedient pet.
I look like her exact opposite: black sweater, tailored skirt, high boots, slicked-back hair.
Chessboard pieces, black and white.
She doesn’t look up immediately.
She drags her gaze over me first, letting me wait.
Then she gives a small, knowing smile.
“I take it you took to Manhattan like a duck to water?”
I slide into the booth beside her, smoothing the linen napkin over my lap while I throw her a sardonic look.
“If by that you mean I spent ten weeks working myself to the bone while men in five-thousand-dollar suits talked about the law like it’s the rules of a video game—then yes. Exactly like a duck to water.”
I don’t say the rest: that I thrived in that environment.
That I didn’t need to enjoy the people I was around and the work I was doing to be great at it, and that knowing I was great at it made it all feel good enough that I could ignore all the distasteful parts.
I’ve always found the powerful repellent, but wielding power felt anything but repellent.
It felt right, like something that I’d always found ugly and repulsive could turn beautiful in my own hands.
“Don’t judge, now.” Alice smirks.
“Soon, you’re going to be the one in a five-thousand-dollar dress talking about the law like it’s a game.”
The thought sends a tiny shiver of discomfort through me, but before I can reply, a waiter appears at our table.
“Oysters to start,” Alice says, handing the menu back without even looking at it.
“And the seared tuna, no rice, extra yuzu dressing.”
The waiter nods and turns to me.
I take my time, scanning the menu under Alice’s watchful doll eyes.
It’s been a long day—a long week—and I’m starving.
“I’ll have the beef tartare to start, and the filet mignon, medium rare. Thank you.”
“Craving meat?” Alice says as the waiter walks away.
And because I don’t want to think about Evan, and even thinking about not thinking about him is still thinking about him, I shake my head.
“Low blood iron.”
Alice snorts but doesn’t push.
We order our drinks: a kir royale for Alice, the colour of the raspberry garnish a perfect match to her nails, and a chilled Lillet Blanc for me.
The first cold sip is heavenly, and I settle back against the banquette, tasting honey and candied lemon on my tongue as I raise an eyebrow at Alice.
“How was your summer?”
“Six weeks of high-stakes litigation, non-stop paperwork, and a mentor with a wall of awards who made sure to let us all know what an ‘ally’ he was right before interrupting every woman who tried to utter so much as a sentence.” Her pout twists with annoyance at the memory, and she gives a little sigh.
“On the plus side, there were just enough scandalous client stories to make me feel morally bankrupt before I even graduate, so that’s over and done with at least.” She flicks back a silken strand of her hair.
“All in all, I’d say my expectations were met.”
Alice’s voice is as sweet and pretty as a pink frosted cupcake, but that sweetness is so calculated that I can’t help but wonder how much of the truth she’s telling me.
She doesn’t come across as though she has any doubts, with her supreme confidence and showy pragmatism, but there’s a curious undercurrent to Alice that I can’t quite explain, like realising someone is wearing armour without being able to catch even the smallest glimpse of what they look like underneath the chain mail.
Did she enjoy her internship?
Did she excel? Did it fulfil her?
Her words don’t reveal any of those things, and I don’t ask.
She doesn’t owe me the complete truth, after all.
We’re not friends, not really, more like tentative allies or wary co-conspirators.
“At least you weren’t writing compliance memos on media ethics that are basically more myth than fact.”
Our starters arrive.
The steak tartare glistens lushly, flecked with capers and slivers of shallot, a raw egg yolk nestled in its centre like a jewel.
“Mm.” Alice drops her eyes towards the food, giving us both a tiny reprieve as she tilts the oyster shell to her lips, dabs her napkin against her mouth.
“And did you see him?”
She doesn’t say his name—maybe she’s giving me an out should I need one.
But I’ve been bleeding for six months; I know how to handle the mess of my own emotions by now.
“No,” I answer curtly.
“I haven’t seen him since the gala.”
Alice’s dark eyes hold mine for a moment.
The truth is that I don’t know what Alice wants to know, or why.
And even though we’re only going to be in Harvard together for two more years, we’re going to know each other forever, and the world of Harvard alums is smaller than most people realise.
So Evan is a subject that stays firmly off the table.
Alice, as if agreeing with this, simply nods.
“Well, since you had no distraction, what did you actually think of KMG?” she asks.
“It was good. Useful, fast-paced. Challenging.” I take a bite of food and glance back up at Alice.
“ Educational .”
“Meaning?” she prompts.
“Meaning I spent the summer watching a billion-dollar company use the law as a weapon to protect their own interests.”
“Did you expect anything else?” Alice says.
“I know you’ve been paying attention in class. If you had any illusions, you’d think they’d be all decimated by now.”
I almost laugh.
“It’s one thing to study the law. It’s another thing to see how it actually operates.”
Alice chews, considering me.
“And?”
“And it’s Spearcrest all over again. Rules apply to some but not others, money is king and power is god.”
“Only this time, you’re the one with power.”
I shake my head.
“That doesn’t make it less corrupt.”
“The world is corrupt whether or not you win,” she says.
“So why not win?”
My knife slices into my steak, pink juices oozing.
I could tell Alice that my plans for this year go beyond networking events and law review competitions.
That I have debts to settle.
That KMG taught me how to pick my battles—and how to win them.
But I’ve learned from people like her.
People like Max. You never lay all your cards on the table.
No matter how good you think your hand is.
Not when the game is rigged.
Not when you’re playing to win.