31. Young Shark
31
Young Shark
Sophie
The first taste of revenge is bittersweet.
The air in the Harvard Law courtyard is crisp with wintry cold, the sky outside dusk-dark despite the early afternoon, snow melting against the windows.
Students linger in the atrium between classes, warming their hands on paper cups of coffee from the kiosk outside.
I’ve just stepped out of Mr Park’s office, still riding the mad rush of adrenaline, still feeling the weight of his words settle over me like the cold hard weight of a crown on my brow.
You’ve done it, Sophie.
You’ve been selected for Harvard Law Review .
The adrenaline I feel isn’t quite pleasure yet, and nothing close to real joy.
It feels more like an absence of something, the waiting hunger before a rich meal.
“You didn’t even want it.”
I turn to the voice behind me.
Anthony.
I wasn’t sure whether he’d wait to do this, whether he’d even give me the satisfaction of this moment.
But he got to watch his last blow land, that night at the gala, so it’s only fair that I should get to watch my blow land now.
He stands a few feet away from me, walking stiffly down the corridor, hands clenched at his sides, eyes as dark and feverish as if he’s sick.
The usual sleek arrogance is long gone.
I let the silence stretch between us, saying nothing, tilting my head to watch him like a curio under glass.
“You already have job offers lined up.” His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t need this.”
“So?”
“You just took it because you wanted to take it from me. ”
And there it is, the real rush: victory, a sensation I couldn’t even describe, an elation with a sharp edge, a pleasure keen to the point of pain.
I could tell him that I earned it, that I didn’t take anything he didn’t lose himself.
That this is what happens when you push someone into the dirt and expect them to stay there.
I could throw the gala at his face, or the fifty-thousand-dollar donation card—Evan’s name, even.
But I don’t. I smile.
“ So? ”
Redness flushes into his cheeks.
He draws so close to me that I can smell him, the gel in his hair, the sugary vape he’s just been sucking on.
I can see the shadows under his eyes, proof of the sleepless nights he must have spent working for the achievement I took from him.
“Why?” he hisses, so angry his voice is barely audible.
I lean into him, speak slowly and deliberately.
“Guess I was just gagging for validation .”
Anthony stiffens.
I hold his gaze for a beat longer, enjoying the victory, giving him a chance to make a retort, to attempt a retaliatory blow.
Nothing. What’s there to say?
I turn and walk away, heels cracking across the marble.
The victory is short-lived, a euphoric rush followed by a sudden wave of hollow exhaustion.
I’ve tasted the first morsel, a delicious bite, but barely enough to touch the sides.
That’s fine: there’s plenty more to come.
One down. Two to go.
I don’t come to the party looking for Dahlia.
It’s just another Harvard Law event, another evening playing the chess game of networking and bartering internships over martinis.
December is the season for these, the final stretch before winter break.
The venue is a private club in Beacon Hill, dark wood panelling and subdued lighting, fireplaces crackling against the cold.
From the tall windows, the streets below are dusted with the remnants of last night’s snowfall.
I notice Dahlia without even meaning to.
Not because she’s ridiculously gorgeous—she always is—and not even because I’d decided that tonight’s going to be the night I take my revenge.
No. I notice her because something’s wrong .
Normally, Dahlia shines at events like these.
Unlike Max’s grating confidence or Anthony’s off-putting pushiness, she has the game of seduction perfected to an art.
She knows how to appear effortless, untouchable, and desirable all at once.
Tonight, she’s wearing dark gold satin draped over her body like liquid armour.
Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back into a simple updo with loose tendrils framing her face .
From a distance, she’s flawless, but I’ve been keeping a close eye on her this year, and I know her well enough to see what nobody else sees.
Like the fact that her movements are impatient and tense, her laughter rings a fraction too loud, her fingers clutch the stem of her champagne flute too tightly.
She drinks, but with none of her customary languor or enjoyment.
And then I see who’s standing next to her.
Marcel Roth.
How was it Alice described him?
Likes his protegees young and contractually compliant .
With almost forty years of experience, he’s a heavyweight in corporate law, charismatic and knowledgeable, the kind of man people trip over themselves to impress.
But his charm is a shallow coating of polish over a dark, rotten thing.
Marcel Roth doesn’t come to these events to network—he comes to these events to shop .
And right now, he’s standing far too close to Dahlia.
A wave of disgust crawls through me.
From where I am, I can see the way he leans in to speak to her, fingers groping the curve of her waist. A casual touch, except it’s not, because Dahlia isn’t playing .
The opposite. She looks furious, disgusted, trapped.
No one intervenes.
We all know Dahlia, the games of seduction she likes to play.
She’s good at them, and part of me suspects that Dahlia feels most alive when she feels desired.
I suppose I feel the same way too, depending on who’s doing the desiring.
But right now, Dahlia doesn’t look like she feels alive.
She looks like she’d rather be dead.
Or rather, like she’d rather Roth was dead.
Her fingers grip her glass as if she wishes it was a knife .
I’m walking towards them before even making a decision, eyes riveted on them, chest tight and cold, hands fisted at my side.
My brain is still full of the research I did for my HLR article, full of the ways rich men find ways to take advantage of women without ever having to face consequences.
Not on my fucking watch.
Isn’t that why I chose law?
I don’t want to witness the abuse of power anymore.
I want to stop it.
When I reach them, Roth is leaning in, whispering something against Dahlia’s ear, ringed hand drifting upward, brushing her hair back from her cheek.
Dahlia goes rigid.
“Come now,” Roth mutters.
“Don’t be difficult, alright? Too late to play shy now.”
I intervene before she can even reply.
“Dahlia,” I say, slipping my arm around her waist and pulling her towards me.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Marcel barely reacts; Dahlia does.
Her eyes flash up to me, her whole body tensing, expression caught between relief and fury.
She doesn’t pull away, eyes locked on mine.
I barely look at Roth, just a quick glance at him over Dahlia’s shoulder, dismissive, like I barely register his existence.
“You don’t mind if I steal her away, do you?”
I move to lead her away, but Roth doesn’t let go so easily.
“She came with me,” he says, catching Dahlia’s wrist. His voice is the smarmy baritone of men who want you to know that they smoke expensive cigars and frequent exclusive membership clubs.
“Didn’t you, young lady? Go on, tell her. ”
Dahlia’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Let go, Marcel.”
He doesn’t.
Not right away. Instead, he takes his time, his thumb rubbing her wrist. He leans in slightly, voice dropping.
“You’ll do what you’re told,” he says, still smiling.
“If you know what’s good for you.”
Everything about him is repulsive.
His voice, his grey hair, his pallid eyes, the sagginess of his skin around the collar of his shirt, the ostentatious rings on his fingers.
I speak before I can even consider the wisdom of it.
“Mr Roth, is that right? I’ve heard so much about you.”
His gaze flicks up to me and stays there this time, finally acknowledging me properly.
He smiles the indulgent smile one might give a naughty child.
“I should hope so.”
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
For the first time, something shifts in his eyes.
“You’ve been lucky so far,” I continue.
“Allegations tend to disappear when you have the right friends. I imagine that must be of some comfort to someone like you.”
Dahlia goes completely rigid.
The change in the air is almost imperceptible.
Roth’s posture stiffens just slightly, the laughter and conversation around us suddenly feel distant.
He lowers his voice and speaks tightly, enunciating every word.
“Be careful, young lady. I’m sure you are very clever and learning all sorts of interesting things. But you’re a very small fish, and I am a very old shark.”
Logically, I know I should be afraid.
Marcel Roth is the kind of person that could destroy someone’s career like squashing a bug.
And maybe the old me would have been afraid, the Sophie who once kept her head down, who played the game to survive rather than to win, a pawn too paralysed by fear to reach the other side of the board and claim the power of a queen.
But I’m not that girl anymore.
The fear simply doesn’t come.
I meet Roth’s glare head-on, my arm still wrapped tightly around Dahlia’s waist.
“I’m always careful, Mr Roth. And I never swim alone, I know plenty of sharks of my own. The Harvard Law Review, for example. My friends at KMG. My mentor, Eleanor Knight.” I give him my sweetest, most venomous smile.
“They might be interested in what this young shark has to say about the old fish who’s trying to bite her friend in half.”
Silence.
I don’t drop Roth’s gaze for even a second, mouth still stretched in a smile.
Then Roth steps back, smooth as ever, and nods.
Not a single flicker of anger in his expression, just a measured, calculated acknowledgement that I’ve won—for now at least. I return the gesture with a tight smirk that’s really a silent promise.
I see you, and I will remember this .
Without another word, he disappears into the crowd.