Heartless: A High School Bully Romance (The Privileged of Pembroke High Book 1) Read online

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Heartless – The Privileged of Pembroke High

  Copyright © 2019 Ivy Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of all word marks, products, brands, TV shows, movies, music, bands and celebrities mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Editing by Heather Clark

  Cover image, formatting, and edit courtesy of X-Factory Designs

  For more information, visit:

  Ivy Fox - Facebook

  Ivy Fox - Official Website

  ISBN: 9781081542344

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Heartless Playlist

  Caution

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Ivy Fox Novels

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Heartless Playlist

  The Privileged of Pembroke High - Part 1

  Listen to full list on Spotify Here

  “Snow White” by Dennis Lloyd

  “Sex and Candy” by Unions

  “Devil Eyes” by Hippie Sabotage

  “My Boy” by Billie Eilish

  “Love is a Bitch” by Two Feet

  “Cringe-Stripped” by Matt Maeson

  “Chainsmoking” by Jacob Banks

  “Sorry” by Meg Myers

  “Young God” by Halsey

  “Baby” by Bishop Briggs

  “The Way I Do” by Bishop Briggs

  “Desire” by Meg Myers

  “You Should See Me in a Crown” by Billie Eilish

  “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish

  Caution

  Dear Reader,

  Although I feel this book does not fall under the dark romance category, there are some elements to it—such as abusive behavior—where more sensitive readers may feel uncomfortable and find it triggering.

  Therefore, I thought it best to bring to light that The Privileged of Pembroke High series, may contain scenes where impressionable audiences may struggle with its content.

  This book, in its whole, is still very much a love story—however unconventional it may be—so if you’re still on the fence, read reviews and get feedback before giving it a go.

  I truly hope you enjoy these bullies of mine.

  Sincerely,

  Ivy

  Epigraph

  “Perhaps it is only human nature to inflict suffering on anything that will endure suffering, whether by reason of its genuine humility, or indifference, or sheer helplessness.”

  ― Honoré de Balzac, Père Goriot

  Chapter 1

  Holland

  “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  My mother’s crisp greeting from behind me never fails to send cold sweats down my back. I try to ignore the unpleasant sensation as I continue to store away my packed lunch into my brown leather messenger bag, and tilt my head just high enough to acknowledge her presence with a thin smile, while making sure to avoid eye contact at all costs.

  “Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?” I ask politely, although I doubt any such pleasantries can mollify the fire-breathing dragon that lives within my mother, especially before she’s had her coffee.

  “I asked you a question, Holland, and I expect you to answer it. Where do you think you are off to at this hour?” she repeats, increasing my apprehension with every click-clack of her stiletto heels on the marble floor as she walks to the kitchen island.

  I hear her snap her fingers, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s her incessant way of demanding an espresso from one of the maids in the kitchen. The obnoxious and rude sound frays my nerves to no end.

  I send an apologetic look to the young woman in charge of getting my mother her morning caffeine, but unfortunately, I know it’s pointless since the staff under Vivienne West’s thumb are quite used to her lack of courtesy and politeness. Any attempt on my part to apologize for my mother’s poor behavior is futile, as it can never diminish her blatant disrespect toward people she deems to be unworthy. My mother only pretends to have that decency when there is something in it for her, and the help do not merit that refinement. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t fare better in her esteemed regard either.

  Under half-cast eyes, I watch her take a seat at the breakfast counter, her long legs crossed at the knee, while one of her red-soled, man-killer heels bounces away in annoyance.

  “Holland, I will not ask you again,” she warns, her tone laced with disdain for having to repeat herself. “Where do you think you are going at this ungodly hour?”

  I’d roll my eyes at that statement if I thought it wouldn’t land me in further hot water with her.

  “It’s nine, Mother, a perfectly respectable time,” I reply, as amicably as possible.

  Considering it’s Monday, most people would be up by now to start their work week, but it’s of little use trying to reason with a woman who hates to wake up before noon on any given day. It’s not my fault her Hamptons soirées run late into the wee hours of the morning, and the only explanation for an early rise that she deems acceptable is when her mimosas-catered brunches require her to do so—which, from her flawless get up at this ungodly hour, said occasion must be today.

  “I have no patience for your lip, young lady,” she rebukes, annoyed, before sipping her espresso from the tiniest cup ever, or as she likes to say, how the Europeans intended coffee to be drunk. “You are not to leave this house, am I understood?”

  I let out a long breath, not wanting to have to argue with her again, but I’ve learned over the years that, when it comes to my mother, I need to stand my ground or she’ll run me through without batting an eye. The only thing that Vivienne West respects is a backbone and resilience, and if I falter on either account by wavering on what has already been set in stone, she won’t miss an opportunity to pounce and retract on promises previously made.

  My mother is quite ingenious in this way. She likes to test the waters, especially if she believes she can turn the tide so the flow only favors her. My father used to say that I should pick my battles when it comes to her, but on this account, I’ll go to war if I have to. I will not let her intimidate me and allow her to strip the one good thing I have going for myself. If my father were here, he’d sup
port me by deflecting my mother’s attention. He’d come up with something else for her to pierce her long, manicured nails into. But since he’ll never be my ally again, I need to nip this in the bud now, before she gets too big for her britches and retracts one of the few promises my father ever made me.

  “I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. I have a job, and I clock in at ten as I have done for the past two summers,” I reply, hoping she realizes how important it is for me to keep my waitressing job at The Shack, and that I’m even willing to go up against her wrath if I need to.

  Sure, from her point of view, my job is no better than the hired servants she has trashed on every day since as far back as she can remember, but for me, it’s an independence that I will do just about anything to keep. I will not spend my summer vacation locked up in a huge, empty house with nothing to do but wallow in grief and self-pity. I have enough of that during the rest of the year, living and being homeschooled at my grandmother’s estate back in Brookhaven. If Dad were here, maybe I’d consider taking fewer shifts just to be able to spend some time with him. But he isn’t, only my mother is. And if there is any way I can keep my distance from her, and instead surround myself with people who do care about me, then by God I will.

  “Well, that was before. Now I forbid it,” she replies coolly, taking another sip of her precious coffee with her pinky pointed out—the epitome of exaggerated privileged.

  “Forbid it? Why?” I ask, my tone as calm as I can make it, considering my mother is dead-set in keeping me imprisoned in my lonely cage.

  “You know why,” she relents, throwing a venomous glare my way, but it fails to hit the mark.

  When I was a child, these hostile stares used to make me nauseous, and I would easily bend to my mother’s will just so she wouldn’t look at me with such malice in her eyes. But that was when I still believed she was capable of loving me if I showed her I was a good, obedient daughter. All that changed when I turned fifteen and witnessed for myself her true narcissistic nature. I realized my mother would never hold any affection for me, no matter what dire situations I had to face in life. The only person she will ever love is herself. No one else can measure up to merit a space in her tiny black heart.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m going, Mother. I gave my word that I would help out at The Shack this year, too, and I intend to keep it.”

  While I had tried not to roll my eyes at my mother’s preposterous remark earlier, she has no qualms with showing me such a lack of respect.

  “You’re seventeen years old, Holland—a child. A child’s word is of little value. As I said, you will stay here, and that’s the end of it.”

  “Dad promised, and you agreed.” I grind my teeth at having to bring up the painful memory of my father to remind my mother of her own consent to his oath. “If a child’s word is meaningless, then what of an adult’s promise? Is it also insignificant?” I counter evenly, attempting my best not to show how her callousness affects me. “After my diagnosis, both of you conceded that as long as I kept my grades high and looked after myself health-wise, I could spend my summers as I see fit. Working is exactly how I want to spend it.”

  Working isn’t the only thing I get from spending my days at The Shack, but that little tidbit is something I prefer my mother stay clueless about.

  “Again, that was before! When people thought you were doing that measly job for your own misguided amusement,” she snarls furiously, slapping her small cup on its saucer hard enough to crack a bit at the side. “Now, if anyone sees you in that wretched, tacky, coffee house, they’ll think it’s because we need it!”

  “Don’t we?” I mumble under my breath.

  Unfortunately, my mother is one of those eerily talented people who can hear a pin drop in the other room, so my little rebellious assertion doesn’t go unnoticed and hits her straight into her clenched jaw.

  “Holland, you are walking a very thin line with me. You should be grateful I brought you along at all. Otherwise, you would be left to spend the whole summer in that tiny wasteland of a town. If you intend to stay and not be on the first bus home to Brookhaven, you will do as I say and that’s the end of it. No daughter of mine will be seen cleaning up after riff-raff, working for tips. We’ve brought enough shame to our family’s name as it is this year. I refuse to let you make me a laughing stock any further.”

  I place my open palms on the dark-gray, cold marble to cool the bubbling rage caused by her little back-handed comment regarding my father. I know she wouldn’t hesitate to follow through on her threat and send me back home, either.

  The only reason why I was allowed to come here in the first place was that my grandmother insisted vehemently that my mother take me in, especially because I hadn’t set eyes on her since my father’s funeral, eight months ago. For appearance’s sake, my mother caved to my grandmother’s demands, but she wouldn’t bat an eye in packing my stuff and calling it quits, placing the blame of my return entirely on my shoulders. Removing my mother’s shallow insecurities, while feeding her inflated ego, is the only way I see myself winning this round.

  “Mother, listen to me, please. No one from your circle will see me there. I’ve worked at The Shack since I was fifteen and I have yet to see or meet any of your friends there. I can’t say the same will happen if I have to spend every day here. Please, think about it. You know I’m right. Has anyone ever come to you telling you that they saw me working at the diner?”

  “No,” she grunts unladylike, her teeth gnawing at her lower lip.

  “Precisely. And that’s because your friends don’t frequent that side of town. You know as well as I do The Shack is a place more for the locals to enjoy, not the Hampton’s elite. No one will ever know.”

  Or care, I think to myself.

  She might feel it’s a weak attempt on my part to placate her concerns, but I’m being as honest as I can without hurting her pride. What I want to say is that her socialite friends would never be caught dead at The Shack. And even if one of them slummed their way to that part of town, they would have no idea who I was regardless.

  It’s not like my mother advertises that she has a teenage daughter. Before Dad died, I only saw her a handful of times a month. And that was usually because my father would drag her to his mother’s house in Brookhaven to see me. I’m under no illusion that Vivienne would have preferred to stay in the city with her friends from Park Avenue than pretend to play house with me—I had nannies and my grandmother for that. But after my health started to deteriorate, my father made a serious attempt in trying to give me some semblance of a family. I was grateful he at least tried, even if the effort was short-lived.

  My father had always been motivated to do things out of guilt, it seems—even going as far as taking his own life when his conscience was plagued with it. This last remorse-filled action is why my mother is even more cautious of her social standing; it’s why I have to defend something as innocent as a summer job and illustrate how it’s of no threat to her.

  She taps her fingernails repeatedly on the counter while scrutinizing me from head to toe. Her eagle-eye inspection increases my anxiety, knowing my simple jean shorts and white T-shirt with ‘The Shack’ logo is less than satisfactory apparel for her high-end fashion taste. I turn my back and walk over to the fridge to grab one of my ginger shots. I open the small bottle with nervous fingers and drink the whole thing in one fast gulp.

  “Do you really have to drink that here?” she questions bitterly, her nostrils flaring as if she can smell the warm, pepper-sharp scent from where she’s sitting.

  We’re in the kitchen for crying out loud. Where would she rather I drink it?

  Instead of the sarcastic rebuttal my mother deserves to hear, I hold my tongue and drop the empty bottle in the trash, far away from her sensitive nose.

  “I would prefer it if you did that when I wasn’t around. The smell is quite unsettling.”

  Right.

  The smell of gi
nger is unsettling for her, but her stomach is just fine with the pure vodka she likes to gulp down at her fancy parties. Again, instead of saying all these things, I go with reminding her why her sensitive nose should come second on this matter.

  “I need it to boost up my immune system,” I retort amiably, but instead of being greeted with concern, I get another slanted stare.

  “Do it when I’m not around. Or at that little café, you’re so insistent in frequenting.”

  I want to bellow that I don’t frequent The Shack; I work there. But I don’t dare since it looks like she’s beginning to falter.

  “Does that mean I can go?”

  “If you must. As long as you do not draw attention to yourself.”

  “I won’t. I promise,” I answer cheerfully, showcasing a true, genuine grin, knowing I can go back to work as I wished.

  “Yes, I don’t doubt you could—even if you tried,” she adds snarkily, and the disrespectful comment hits me dead center in my chest, wiping the smile off my face, just as she intended to.

  She stands from her seat, her shoulder-length, blonde hair immaculately in place, and takes the necessary steps to face me. She places her red fingernail under my chin, her blue eyes piercing at my gray.

  “Don’t disappoint me, Holland. I have big plans this summer, and I am not about to let anything get in the way of them. If you want this job so much, keep it. Consider it a favor. As long as no one there knows you’re my daughter. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” I mumble stiffly, knowing no favor from my mother comes without strings attached. The lukewarm smile I gain from her increases my worry, wondering how costly my repayment for this favor will be.