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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 apparentlyThe New York Timesare 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.

42

Playing Dirty

Sophie

Maybe Elle notices mysudden bad mood, because she walks over to take my arm and steer me away from the group I’m standing with, which has been growing more nervous and uncomfortable and seems visibly relieved when Elle takes me away.

Night has fallen fully now, and in the corner of the conservatory, a DJ is starting to turn the music up. People are eating less now, drinking more, speaking louder. The scent of cigarette smoke drifts from the gardens, where people are standing under strings of lanterns. The mood, for a corporate event, is relaxed, almost fun—but I’m the opposite.

I’m tense, angry, and determinedly gloomy.

Elle presses a glass in my hand. I take a sip without looking at it, and my entire body convulses.

“God! What is this, jet fuel?”

“It’s a double. You look like you need it.”

“No, no, no.” I lean over her to place the drink down on the tray carried by a passing server. “I’m not getting drunk tonight.”

“Why?” She frowns. “Everybody else is. We’ve fulfilled our business obligations, and this is the last week of the internship. You can relax, honey.”

“You don’t understand.” I bite down hard, feel the twitching in my jaws. “I can’t relax.”

Elle watches me for a second. She looks phenomenal tonight: matching set in rose-red tweed, strappy heels and her long blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail that falls in one perfect coil down her back. She looks like she wants to have fun, and I’ve seen how hard she’s worked all summer. She definitely deserves to have fun.