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Inside is a simple dress, the designer tag discretely folded away. I can tell straightaway it’s expensive: I can tell by the fabric, which feels soft yet structured, and by the clean tailoring. The dress fits my style perfectly. It’s black and slightly fitted, with a high neck and long sleeves but a sober triangular open back. It’s the perfect dress for the gala, elegant yet understated, high-quality yet comfortable-looking.

At the bottom of the box, I find a card with a little cartoon bear saying, “Good luck!” I open the card. My vision blurs with sudden tears. Mum’s handwriting is a little wobbly, the ink dug deep into the paper, like she was nervous, or like she wanted me to know just how much she meant the words.

I know you said not to send you anything, but we thought you might want something new to wear to your gala. You’re going to be perfect, Sophie. You’ve always been.

Love,

Mum and Dad

20

Tasting Blood

Sophie

New York at nightis a strange mix of contradictions: expansive yet claustrophobic, darkness pressing in while lights refract off glass towers, the night painted black and gold. Outside the Empyrean, black cars glide up one after the other, doors swinging open to reveal another titan of industry, another legend of the legal world, another woman in a dress worth more than my tuition.

Alice’s driver drops us off just a few steps from the grand entrance, where uniformed attendants are ushering guests inside. The pre-drinks at Nadine’s are still burning in my bloodstream, but the ride into the city—Alice coolly running me through the guest list, handing me information like a general prepping a soldier for battle—has sobered me up.

“A few people to keep in mind,” she’d said. “Charlotte Reeve—founding partner at Blackthorne & Reeve. Deeply traditional,hatessycophants. Marcel Roth, very powerful, very influential—likes hisprotégéesyoung and contractually compliant. Faizal Patel—KMG board member, and of course, Eleanor Knight and her family.”

I hadn’t cared to comment and she’d not pushed me to.

Alice precedes me past a line of photographers and flashing lights and into the lobby, her posture so perfect that the long gold pear-drops dangling from her ears barely move.

In the lobby, the air is dense with the smell of expensive perfume, caviar and champagne. Waiters bearing trays of food and drinks glide through clusters of men in tuxedos. A photographer snaps shots of a woman in an indigo sheath dress, a rivière twinkling at her throat like falling stars. I almost lose Alice in the crowd, overwhelmed by the excess of it all, the disorienting glimmer of silk and satin, the clinking of glass and the low roar of voices.

“Here.” Alice presses a flute of champagne into my hand. “One more for courage, then no more until our work is done.”

She raises her flute; the colour of the champagne matches the shade of her eyeshadow almost perfectly.

“To tasting blood,” she says.

I tap my glass to hers. “To spitting out the bones.”

We drink and break apart. I roam the crowd with my eyes. Now that I’m standing in the thick of it, I realise just how much I’ve underestimated the scale of this event. The weight of wealth and legacy lies heavy here, almost crushing. For a moment, my throat tightens. Then I spot a familiar face.

Mr Park stands near the gilded entrance hall, smiling and at ease amid a cluster of guests. He’s wearing a charcoal-grey suit, tailored meticulously. A hint of slate-blue silk peeks from his pocket square, complementing the cool silver of his cufflinks: understated yet elegant, like everything about him. His clever eyes sweep the room before settling on mine, narrowing with something akin to satisfaction.

And then he smiles.

“Sophie,” he calls out. “I was just talkingabout you.”

I draw closer, licking my lips, more nervous because it’shim.Out of everyone in this room, Mr Park is the only person whose admiration Iwantrather than need.

The group around him watches me with interest. A tall woman with ruby earrings tilts her head, observing me with a studious gaze. A man with greying hair and a navy Tom Ford tuxedo gives me a slow, assessing nod. Another, a distinguished-looking older man with a cropped white beard, watches with the detached curiosity of a zoologist observing a specimen. I recognise him instantly of course—Justice Caldwell. Alice warned me about him: Second Circuit, deeply influential, very hard to please.

Mr Park gestures to each of them in turn.

“Sophie, allow me to introduce Daniel Groves, senior partner at Holloway & Finch, Olivia Langley, general counsel at Temeraire Holdings, and Justice Caldwell, one of the titans of constitutional law.”

The judge barks a mirthless laugh, but the woman gives me a smile, and her severe benevolence immediately reminds me of Mr Ambrose, the headmaster of Spearcrest. I straighten my posture on instinct, without even meaning to.

Then Mr Park gestures at me, the movement almost proud, drawing me slightly closer into the circle of their collected attention.

“This is Sophie Sutton, one of my brightest neophytes,” he says. “The Direct Admissions programme has its detractors, but I’m certain this young woman alone could change their minds.”

I stare up at him, heat rising to my face. I’ve seen Mr Park almost every week since arriving at Harvard; he’s never once expressed this to me. Does he really mean it, or is this part of a political play? If the DART programme is drawing criticism,maybe Mr Park isn’t so much praising me as trying to validate the programme itself.