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Her tone is odd, hard to read, something almost wistful beneath the mockery.

“I’m not,” I bite out, clutching my coat tighter. “I’m terrible at networking, you’ve seen me—”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Dahlia snaps, rolling her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with being noticed.”

“Besides, you don’t need to be good at networking when you’re good at other things,” Anthony adds. There’s no insincerity in his voice, not even mockery. He speaks with a warmth that feels so real it chills me to the bone. “Anyway, I’m sure Ella Knight will have your back. She’s practically family, after all.”

My throat is sore from a hundred cutting replies, but what would be the point? They’re like vicious children watching a small animal drown. The struggleisthe pleasure to their watching eyes.

So I don’t say anything. Instead, I tighten my grip on my coat and shove past them, their low, derisive laughter trailing after me.

12

Nicomachean Ethics

Evan

I think I mighthate New York.

Winter here is all sharp angles and cold steel and frosty rain. From my desk on the fifteenth floor of KMG’s glass fortress, the city sprawls below me, a grey, indifferent blur. The wordsCorporate Partnershipsare printed on the glass doors behind me. A department as far removed from Operations as possible.

Best for everyone involved, really.

Operations was a disaster. I wasn’t fast enough, meticulous enough, driven enough. Mistakes piled up. The review meeting was an hour of barely disguised disappointment. I was quietly “transitioned” toPartnerships.

A lateral move, my father called it. But we both know the truth: they wanted me out of the way.

Partnershipsis calmer. Less demanding. But even here, I’m treading water: my presentations are dull, my reports are passable at best. I’m not impressing anyone. Least of all him.

The days blur together. I wake up, sit through work, go home. Even my new apartment feels like an unearned prize. High ceilings, exposed brick, a skyline view. None of it means anything.

I stare out at the city at night, watching people move with purpose, bundled against the cold. They know where they’re going. I don’t. I drift, a life of bare minimums: half-hearted conversations, emails sent just late enough to seem busy, reports hastily patched together and submitted with no proofreading.

At home, I scroll through my feed. Sev and Anaïs at some gallery opening. Zach and Theodora at a cosy café with friends I don’t recognise. They’re moving forward, leaving a trail of perfect, curated memories in their wake.

And I’m just here, doing what I always do: waiting for my life to lead me somewhere.

I think about Sophiemore than I should.

Don’t I always?

At night, I stare at the ceiling, wondering if Harvard is everything she wanted. If Max still has his arm around her. If he’s still whispering the same poison that made her try to leave me. I should ignore it, but I don’t.

I scroll obsessively, saving every photo I find. Sophie at some networking event, a glass of wine the same colour as her mouth in hand. Sophie in dark clothes, hair pulled back tight, expression unreadable. She never smiles. In every picture, she looks the same: joyless but focused, sullen but elegant.

She’s like a sliver of dark, intense energy, serious and rigid as a statue, but there’s something about her that draws the attention like a magnet: I notice it in every picture. The way men and women’s eyes are drawn to her when she’s not even looking.

I close my eyes and I can hear her voice, low and smoky, picking apart some obscure case. Her laugh, rare and velvety,scraping against some deep unreachable spot inside me. Her eyes, heavy-lidded in lazy satisfaction. Her mouth, upturned at the corner, almost mocking. Her body, pliant, hot enough to burn a hole right into me, leaving me charred black at the edges.

Part of me wants to reach out. To ask how she’s doing. To tell her to come here, let me take care of her. Just for a weekend. Just long enough to take the edge off the addiction. But she’s already responding to my texts more than she was before. I can’t risk pushing her away.

And if I’m honest? If she did, I wouldn’t blame her.

What have I done to deserve her? I’m still the same mess I was at Spearcrest. Coasting on privilege and luck. A walking disappointment to everyone who matters. Earning her respect feels like chasing shadows, and I’m so fucking tired of running after something I’ll never catch.

So I don’t.

I let the days blur, surviving on caffeine, workouts, sheer inertia. Meetings drift past in a monotone drone, every interaction like a bad play I’m forced to act in. I lift as heavy as I can in the gym so I can pass out the moment I get to bed, and wake up sore. I skip meals, knowing I shouldn’t, and zone out mid-conversation because I’m either too tired or too distracted or I just don’t care enough. I sleep badly, which gives me headaches.