41. Gold & Steel
41
Gold I’m owed this victory, this prize .
I should feel proud, and I do, but there’s hesitation too, a tiny stab of uncertainty deflating my triumph.
My father watches me for a moment, a curious expression in his gaze.
Then, he claps a firm hand on my shoulder, like he already knows what I’m thinking, even if I hardly do.
“Whatever you choose, son,” he says, “just make it count.”
Dad’s words weigh heavy on my mind for the next two days, but it’s easy enough to distract myself with work.
The weekend feels like a treasure trove of opportunities, and I intend to fill Inkspill’s coffers as much as possible before the weekend ends.
The retreat usually ends with a cocktail party where everyone lets loose, and I promised Matt and Mina we’d have some fun before we all have to return to New York, where a mountain of work awaits us.
The day of the cocktail party, it rains, putting everyone in a low mood, but by the time the final event ends, the rain’s stopped, the sky’s cleared, and the grounds are gleaming shiny green and gold with wet leaves and low, warm sun rays.
I pace the room with my drink, taking only the smallest sips while I assess the situation.
Matt, getting every penny’s worth out of his Prada suit, is shaking hands with a distributor while Mina, standing next to him in a dark purple silk dress, nods enthusiastically.
Patch, despite all his claims of hating these kinds of events, is cornered by a group of young industry hopefuls clamouring for advice about marketing in publishing.
Even Inés is crushing it.
Standing poised and confident, a glass of champagne in hand, she’s got the attention of about five investors .
They’re doing great—growing in confidence under my very eyes.
It’s strange, to think that this time next year, I’ll be gone from Inkspill, and they’ll be doing all this again, on their own.
It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth even as I prepare to plunge into the fray.
And then a shiver runs down my back.
I sense her before I even see her.
I turn sharply, scanning the crowd, my pulse spiking.
There, just past a cluster of executives and interns, standing near the bar, I see her.
Sophie fucking Sutton .
She’s wrapped in a tight chocolate-brown silk dress, her hair pinned back to show off the sharp cut of her cheekbones.
High heels, the same deep brown.
No jewellery aside from the familiar emerald at her throat.
The only embellishment is the slit in her dress, revealing flashes of her bare thigh every time she moves.
She’s standing with a group who are all laughing, but she’s not.
She’s watching, lips uptilted, her smile curved and self-assured, with that mean edge that’s always made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
A man leans in to speak to her, and she turns slightly to listen.
Our eyes meet.
For a moment, nothing else exists except for me and Sophie and the taut line between our gazes, burning everything away.
My heartbeat quickens as if I’m in danger.
Dropping my head back ever so slightly, I tip my glass up to her across the room.
Her eyes widen with a flash of something raw and heart-stoppingly soft.
It’s gone in an instant.
She rolls her eyes, vicious girl that she is, and then she lifts up her flute of champagne—and purses her lips to blow me a tiny kiss .
My legs move before I can stop them, before I can think, like a helpless star pulled into the gravity of a black hole, drawing me inexorably towards the only thing in this world I want more than anything else, need more than—
A hand settles on my arm.
“So apparently The New York Times are going to be running a feature on us,” Inés says, beaming up at me.
“And I know we have you to thank for that, so come on. Patch wants to make a toast.”
I follow her reluctantly, torn between elation and frustration.
At the last moment, I look over my shoulder at Sophie.
She’s already turned away.