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But I dive in headfirst anyway. I start showing up early, earlier than anyone else in the department, planting myself at my desk with coffee and an actual to-do list. I volunteer for every menial task that nobody else wants: organising files, following up with difficult clients, double-checking spreadsheets for errors.

The effort is met with mild indifference. My supervisor, a man who’s been here so long he’s practically fossilised into his desk, barely glances at me when I offer to help with a client presentation.

“Sure.” He doesn’t even look up from his screen. From the wall above him, motivational posters remind me to ‘Make It Happen’ and to ‘Walk the Talk’. He waves a hand. “Just don’t mess it up.”

I leave his office deflated, feeling suddenly stupid in my new suit and white gold tie clip. His reaction is exactly the kind of reaction I get for the next two weeks: polite, indifferent tolerance.

Every day, when I pass the Knight Media Group sign, backlit in gold above the reception desk, I force myself to straighten my posture, fix my tie. In the elevator, I ask myself the same question every time: would Sophie give up?

The answer’s always the same. So I don’t give up.

But the more time passes, the more my motivation bleeds out. Every time someone ignores my input, every time my work gets brushed aside, it rattles the flimsy scaffolding of resolve I managed to build off the back of Sophie’s words. I tell myself to keep going, to push through, butdoubt creeps in.

What if Sophie’s wrong? What if I’m not strong or capable or any of the things she thinks I am? What if I’m just… me?

A spoilt, useless rich kid who’s been coasting on his family name his whole life.

Isn’t that why she won’t be seen with me, after all? Because deep down, she knows exactly what I am: nothing but my money. That’s all anyone sees when they look at me—including her.

By the end of the month, I stop coming in early or staying late. I pass the reception desk with my eyes on the floor, blanking out the sight of my name. In the elevator, I push Sophie firmly out of my head.

Sometimes, the echo of her voice tells me to keep going, to prove everyone wrong, but it sounds distant now, like she’s speaking to someone else entirely.

19

Poor Lamb

Sophie

Before I even knowit, the iconic American spring break is upon me.

Everyone in DART has plans: Aspen, St Tropez, Monaco. Max and Anthony are flying to Dubai in private jets, Dahlia is off to her father’s third wedding, bored before she’s even left.

“You’re so lucky,” she tells me, stretching like a cat after class one afternoon. “No yacht parties to distract you. You’ll probably be miles ahead of me by the time I get back.”

Although her words feel more than a little double-edged, there’s still a tiny little shard of sincerity in there. Still, it’s hard not to let her words get to me. I’ve spent so many years being the outsider, the one without a holiday villa or a passport full of stamps. At Spearcrest, I learned to be numb to it. But maybe everyone has a breaking point.

Mine comes when Audrey texts a picture of her and Araminta boarding a flight to Florence. Their smiling, flushed faces shatter my resolve like a punch through glass. For one reckless second, I search for flights home. I don’t even think, I just do it, fingers moving before my brain can stopthem.

The prices flash on the screen.

“Oh.”

My own voice startles me, the tiny exclamation echoing in my silent room.

It’s more than double my savings. Even if I drained my emergency fund, it wouldn’t cover half the ticket. The idea of calling my parents, asking them for help, flickers through my mind. I slam the door on it before it can fully form.

I close the tab. My bedroom is dim, rain sliding down the window, shadows lingering long and grey. What was I even thinking? I’m not Dahlia, or Alice Liu, or Araminta or Audrey. I’m Sophie Sutton, a girl who should really have known better than to even think about flying home.

So I do what I always do. I shove the disappointment down and bury myself in work.

I drink lukewarm coffee and scroll through internship listings. The competition is brutal, the opportunities slim, and lurking behind all of them is the one option I’ve been refusing to consider.

Knight Media Group.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, then I type it in.

The website floods my screen, sleek edges and gold accents, Evan’s parents staring back at me from glossy press photos, looking cool and composed. It’s like glimpsing a world through a half-open doorway: internships in New York, London, Paris. Prestigious placements, the kind of opportunity people would kill for. The kind that would solveeverything.