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And then I’m home, and what I actually do is grab two slices of leftover pizza, eat them cold out of the fridge, loosen my tie—I don’t even have the strength to take it off—and crawl into bed. I don’t even realise I’m asleep until much later when Dad shakes me awake.

“Get changed, son,” he says, “and come get some dinner.”

I nod, sitting up, my head full of angry hammers. I stumble out of my suit and into sweats, then I sit down on my bed to check my phone. Fifteen texts in the Spearcrest Kings group chat—the name seems to mock me now—mostly Sev and Zach fighting like a divorced couple over which one of them Iakov should come visit over the half-term holiday. A couple of texts from Adele, my sister, asking if I’ve been sacked yet.

Nothing from Sophie.

I drop back into my pillows with a groan. What am I doing it all for, if not for her?

If I thought thefirst day would be the worst, I was wrong. Each day drags on, more endless and tedious than the last, until the weekend starts to feel like nothing more than a distant, unattainable dream.

Friday comes after what feels like a century of drudgery. For once, the day feels almost bearable—the light twinkling at me from the end of the tunnel.

It’s the first time I don’t dread stepping into the office.

At lunch, a burst of optimism inspires me to text Sophie, asking if we’re still on for this weekend. Maybe this week hasn’t been a total waste. Maybe she’ll say yes.

Maybe all of this will be worth it.

She doesn’t reply until the day is over—my phone buzzes just as I step out of the elevator. I stop in the atrium to read her text, heart clenched tight in suspended hope, when my attention is caught by fragments of a conversation between a few employees clustered near the sitting area.

“Poor Gilbert,” someone says, voice low. “Stuck babysitting the boss’s kid. Can’t imagine that clueless boy knows a pivot table from a paperclip.”

“With that last name, you’d think he’d come prepared,” another voice adds, softer but just as cutting.

“Heard Holcomb’s been staying late to double-check his work,” a woman chimes in. “Like he doesn’t have enough on his plate without having to pick up the slack for a kid wearing our yearly salary on his wrist.”

My Rolex suddenly feels as heavy as a shackle; I resist the urge to rip it off and fling it as far away from me as I can.

If this was happening to Sophie, she would turn back, walk up to them, and say something clever and biting. I consider it for a second, my hands curling into fists.

And then I put my head down, and shove my hands into my coat pockets, and I walk away. Outside, the cacophony of the busy Manhattan street swallows up their voices in a roar of wind and traffic.

I try to calm myself down. They don’t know me, they don’t know what I’m capable of. But the sharp edge of reality cuts right through.

WhatamI capable of?

The answer churns in my stomach like acid: nothing. I’m exactly what they think I am: the boss’s kid, skating by on a name I just happened to be born with, stumbling into a job I was just handed. A charity case in a tailored suit.

Without meaning to, I picture Sophie in a Harvard lecture hall, sitting right at the front, answering questions with that quiet, confident intelligence of hers.

She thrives under pressure; I just crumble. If she sees me the way I see myself, then no wonder she doesn’t want me.

I unlock my phone with shaking hands, desperate for some sign she doesn’t feel that way. Her text sits at the top of my screen like a final verdict, and for a moment, I can’t even bring myself to read it.

Please, Sophie. Please just tell me you want to see me.

I open the text.

Sophie: Not feeling great, sorry. Let’s talk soon.

Fat droplets of rain splash onto the screen, blurring out her words.

5

Sprung Trap

Sophie