The Destruction of Rose: A High School Bully Romance (Albany Nightingale Duet Book 1)

by Rachel M Raithby

  Maybe my game-playing days are over. No more schemes, no more scandal. Knuckle down and finish school.

  “Concentrate on my grades,” I whisper to myself as I enter the elevator in my building. “I could do that.” I say the words, yet even to my own ears, they seem half-hearted. “Damn it, I’m doomed.”

  Unlocking the apartment door, I stomp in, huffing and puffing like a kid who’s had their favorite toy taken away. I notice my mum sit up straighter out of the corner of my eye as I make a beeline for my room. I’m not in the mood for her. I’m not in the mood for anyone.

  The bedroom door slams loudly behind me, rattling the walls, and I dump my bag at my feet and sling myself onto my double bed, burying my head into the duvet. One Jimmy Choo falls with a thud to the carpet, the other hanging half off my foot.

  “Argh!” I yell, muffling the sound with the duvet, smacking my fists to release my tension.

  The bedroom door opens. “Rose, what are you doing?”

  “Being pissed off. What does it look like?” I mutter, face pressed into duck down.

  “It looks like you’re being childish.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, sitting half up and glaring at her. “I’ve had a really shitty day. Just go away and leave me alone.”

  My mother narrows her eyes as she crosses her arms across her chest. “What happened to you?” she starts, her voice cold. “My daughter wouldn’t be screaming into her pillow; she’d be plotting revenge.”

  Her words sting, but the reality is, she’s right.

  “Newsflash, Mother,” I yell as she retreats from my room. “I’m not your daughter anymore.”

  The door shuts far quieter than I closed it, but the act is deafening all the same. She’s never been a cuddly, caring mother, but for once, it would have been nice to have been given comfort, not words designed to hurt and humiliate.

  I know she’s right. I know I’m not acting myself, but I don’t know who I am anymore, and her twisted idea of a pep talk isn’t going to rectify it. Neither is crying, but my body doesn’t seem to care about that either.

  Angry and annoyed with myself, I bring up my phone and the pictures I’ve been obsessively scrolling through since leaving London, and begin to erase them one by one. That life is dead and buried, and it’s time I erased the evidence of ever belonging to St. Paul’s Grammar. Next I go onto social media I’ve been avoiding. It takes all of two Facebook messages to know there’s no need to look at the rest. My wall is filled with hate. Not one single notification is a message asking where I am and if I’m okay. Removing all the social media apps from my phone, I decide I’m grateful Mum whisked us off to America. Staying in London would have been the equivalent to swimming in shark-infested water with an open wound.

  It’s dark when I emerge from my bedroom again, unable to ignore the gnawing at my stomach. I hardly ate at breakfast and school, so my body’s desperate to make up for it. My mother is seated at one end of the couch, a glass of wine in one hand as she looks over papers and material samples spread over the cushions.

  She doesn’t look up, but her tone holds none of the bite it did earlier. “I ordered Chinese. I left yours in the oven to keep warm.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, heading over to the kitchen on silent feet.

  “Maybe you need a glass of wine, too,” she suggests.

  Your answer to everything. I’ll be an alcoholic by the time I graduate at this rate.

  Taking my food and drink, I come over to the seating area and place them on the coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Silence lands between us while I eat and my mother works, but eventually, she looks up, holding out two squares of material.

  “Which color do you prefer?” To the untrained eye, they’d seem the same color, but while one is a crisp white, the other has a slightly warmer tone to it.

  “What colors are the centerpieces?” I ask.

  “Pastels. She wants blush roses.”

  “Off-white,” I say, looking away and picking up another forkful of chow mein.

  It’s at least five minutes before she speaks again. “Tell me about them.”

  I know who she means. Only one group of people matters to my mother at Albany, and it has nothing to do with being good or smart or nice. These people could be as wicked as they come, but if they have wealth and status, she’ll look past even the deadliest of sins. She clearly did with my father, until his sins were going to have the family fortune ripped away.

  “Do you remember the time I came here for the summer?” I ask.

  She meets my gaze, intrigued. “Yes. You went on and on about a boy you’d met.” She smiles warmly, giving me a glimpse at the rare mother she can be. “I kept telling you, no boy from Brooklyn would be good enough, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “He goes to Albany now.”

  Her eyes widen in shock. “Scholarship?”

  “I don’t think so. In fact, the boy from Brooklyn I couldn’t shut up about is gone. He’s an Upper East Sider now and is as cruel as they come. He acted as if he didn’t know me. It was awful, Mother. I was laughed out of the courtyard.”

  A crease appears on her brow. “How strange. Maybe they do not know he is from Brooklyn.” Her grin’s smug. “Reveal his true beginnings, and you will have all the revenge you need.”

  The queen bitch in me stirs at the makings of a plot.

  “I’ve probably got some photos of us together somewhere.”

  Her fingers steeple her glass. “Yes. That would do it. See, you are my daughter after all.” She laughs, but for some reason, the statement doesn’t make me feel better as my mother had intended. What does it say about me if our mother-and-daughter bonding is done over wine and the wicked glee of making someone pay? It’s not normal, I know, but it’s the only way I know how to be.

  ***

  It takes me a while to find the pictures from some long-forgotten backed-up folder, but when I do, I know I won’t be sharing them with our school as my mother had suggested. I’m looking at a version of myself I’ve forgotten. A time before high school, a time when life was far simpler and carefree. I look happy, and it’s not just because I’m with Ash. There is no weight of a crown dragging me down, no pressure to perform perfectly for fear of attack. I’m free, and the Ash beside me is too.

  We’ve both changed, and for the first time, I’m questioning whether I’ve changed for the better.

  The photographs are mostly of us laughing together, pulling silly faces, and generally being young. They are taken in various locations from my hotel suite to Central Park, but there is one snapshot that I can’t linger over. We were posing for the camera when Ash kissed me unexpectedly. It wasn’t our first kiss, but the effect was just the same. I can see the unexpected joy in my eyes, the crease of my lips as I meet him halfway, and Ash… he’s as happy and love drunk as me. There is no way on earth he doesn’t remember me.

  I don’t care what he says. I have the proof right here that our feelings were real.

  Closing my laptop with a little too much force, I push it to the end of the bed and shuffle beneath the teal and gray covers, then flop back onto my pillows. It’s after midnight, and in a few short hours, I’m going to have to be awake for another day in hell.

  I need sleep. I need to prepare myself for the battle ahead.

  ***

  By the end of my first week in school, I’ve learned all I need to know about the inner circle. Some of it was gathered from studying them, some from stalking their social media, and the rest from a wannabe socialite who’s so desperate for an in, she easily became my willing friend.

  Isla’s good at talking, and I let her do that for most of the school day as she fills me in on any and all, past and present, school gossip. Her ability to talk at a hundred miles a minute is useful, though a little tedious, but by Friday, I quite like the girl. She’ll be a good friend to have by my side when I eventually retake my crown.

  We’re in free period, and there is only one hour left of the day. I
haven’t written a word on the English paper I’m supposed to be working on; instead, I’m studying Ash and his followers, my gaze transfixed on the people I want to be and want to destroy.

  Grayson Bishop, the boy who kissed my hand before realizing who I was—a reaction I still don’t understand—is Ash’s stepbrother and the previous king. Rumor is he willingly handed over his crown to his new, more golden, less wicked brother. A rumor I can believe. There are certain expectations when holding the throne, and they don’t include sleeping with a different woman every night and being far too eager to drink and dabble in the odd recreational drug. I imagine it was a relief for him to drop his poster-boy image and let the devil beneath out, and probably the reason why Ash’s Brooklyn heritage was overlooked. It was one of the first things Isla told me about Ashton Cole—his not so prestigious beginnings. Somewhere between us meeting and my return, Ash’s mother married Grayson’s father. I guess his parents must have divorced; it’s a fact Isla and even social media didn’t know. Another change that happened in our years apart is Ash’s sudden interest and ability in football. During our weeks together, he didn’t once mention playing; instead, Ash showed me his love for drawing and comic books. A nerdy trait at odds with his not so nerdy looks.

  Averting my gaze, I pretend to write something when Sophia Kincaid glances up, laughing at something Ash and Grayson must have said. Out of the three, it’s her I hate the most. I tell myself it’s her Barbie doll looks and over-the-top laughter, but in reality, it’s the fact she gets to link her arms through Ash’s and press up against his toned side. The two have been dating since a month after Ash started at Albany Nightingale in his sophomore year, meaning it must be nearly a year they’ve been together. Another reason why I hate her.

  But this is more than Ashton and his behavior toward me. It’s about getting back to where I’m supposed to be. What happened in London wasn’t my fault, and if my father hadn’t been caught, I’d be happily ruling with Luke and Clare by my side. Life is never easy, though and it rarely goes to plan, which means I’m left in a new country without allies I’ve had for years and my head crownless. This isn’t supposed to be my life, and there’s only one way I’m going to change it.

  Sophia Kincaid’s reign is coming to an end.

  “Hey, what are you doing after school?” I whisper to Isla next to me.

  “Nothing, why?”

  I smile. “I’ve a plot to plan, and I do my best thinking at the nail salon.” I pick up her hand, inspect her chipped polish. “We’re getting a full manicure.”

  She smiles, giddy. “Still lusting after Ashton, I see. You’re not the first one to try, you know.”

  “This has nothing to do with Ashton. It’s about reclaiming what’s rightfully mine. The crown, not Ash,” I reiterate when her smile grows.

  Isla studies me with a mixture of envy and disbelief. “She’s been Miss Popular since before high school. Her father’s some big shot judge.”

  And mine’s a big shot criminal. Sometimes it takes a bit of rule-breaking to get what you want, but it wasn’t my father who taught me that; it was my mother. And I’m beginning to think she’s not as innocent after all. She just played a better game.

  Chapter 8

  Sunday comes around and I’m forced into what seems is going to be a family ritual; brunch at Sant Ambroeus. Following my mother, we enter the building on Madison Avenue under the cute green canopy and into the lush interior within. My grandfather speaks to the waiter and we’re soon shown to our table.

  A huge crystal chandelier glitters above in the center of the ornate ceiling, but it isn’t that which draws my eye but the family sitting together, two tables down. Averting my gaze as soon as my brain kicks back into function, I pray to God they’ll somehow not notice me for the duration of our meal. Of course, it’s a foolish notion; I’m bound to be trapped here for at least an hour, and we’re only a table apart.

  I almost groan aloud when Sophia enters the room, striding toward Ash and his family.

  “So sorry I’m late,” she sing-songs as she takes her place next to Ash, kissing him on the cheek.

  I dip down further in my seat, hoping to hide behind my mother.

  “Rose, stop slouching,” my mother hisses, swatting me under the table. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

  “There’s kids from school. I don’t want to be seen,” I mutter, shifting back in my seat. It’s bad enough having to endure the grandmonsters I barely know, who judge my every move, without having to deal with more from the neighboring family.

  “So they’re your opponents.” My mother smiles, turning to study them.

  “Don’t look,” I growl, punching her in the leg.

  She jumps, glaring at me, and our childish actions attract the attention of my grandfather. He looks down his nose at us like we’re both immature teenagers, before turning to see who my mother was looking at.

  “Ah.” He smiles. “Arthur, how good to see you.”

  “Fuck,” I whisper. “Cheers, Mother.”

  Grayson’s father peers at our table, his gaze lingering on my mother for a second too long before he stands from his chair and makes his way over. My grandfather follows suit.

  “Charles, I see your daughter is back in town.” His critical gaze lands on my mum. “Visiting, Violet?”

  Placing her napkin on the table, my mother stands too, squaring her shoulders as she looks as sternly back. I’ll give it to my mother, she’s never one to back down from hostility, even if it is masked with layers of decorum and pleasantries.

  “No, actually. I’m back for good.”

  “Missed the Upper East Side, did you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And this must be your daughter.”

  I stand too, ignoring the three sets of eyes I can feel watching me from Ash’s table and plaster on my most winning smile.

  “Rose. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “What a charming accent.” He chuckles. “No husband, Violet?” He eyes the table as if we might have my dad hidden under the tablecloth.

  “We parted ways,” my mother replies, somehow sounding both regretful and happy at the idea.

  “Well, I’m sure Charles and Ellenor are delighted to have you home. I suspect you know my sons, Rose.” He holds out an arm toward their table, and Grayson and Ash take this as their cue to come over. Evil glee’s written all over Grayson’s face.

  “We’ve met, Father,” Grayson says as he stands beside him. They’re the same height. Grayson an image of a younger Arthur, only maybe a little more sinister.

  Ash stays quiet, even as his stepfather looks on expectantly. “This is Ashton, my stepson. He’s a phenomenal football player, aren’t you, son?”

  “I’m all right,” Ash mumbles, avoiding my gaze. I wish he’d look at me. I wish for one second we could be the kids we’d once been.

  Arthur laughs softly. “He’s a modest young man. Well, we’ll let you get on.” He takes in my grandfather again. “Charles, always a pleasure.”

  “Bye, Rose,” Grayson replies, his charm not fooling me. I see the evil glint in his eye. I see the torture he plans to inflict.

  And as they turn, Ash finally looks my way. For a split second, our eyes connect. There is no one else in the room. All I see is him. All I feel are the whimsical feelings of my thirteen-year-old self, and for a single moment, I see it all reflected back—the connection we both shared. Yet it’s over so quickly I’m not sure if it was real, and as I sit, a heaviness settles deep in my chest. I can ignore it all I want—plot and scheme as I dream of overthrowing their reign—but it won’t change the fact I have feelings for Ash. Feelings that have survived from the tender age of thirteen.

  “He’s the boy, isn’t he?” my mother whispers after we’ve settled into our seats. “Your Brooklyn boy.”

  “He’s not my Brooklyn boy anymore,” I state sadly, picking up my menu. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Keep your eye on
the prize, Rose. Boy’s aren’t as important as status.”

  “You realize those two are royalty at school, right?” I mutter, not bothering to look her way.

  “So she’s their queen?”

  I glance up to find her discreetly studying Sophia. “Yes, Sophia Kincaid.”

  “They’ll have no choice but to follow you when you take her place.”

  Ducking my head, so she doesn’t see my eye roll, I groan inwardly. “Maybe I don’t want her place. Maybe my rule ended in London.”

  I brace myself for the oncoming anger. Because to my mother, there is nothing more important than being on top. Sometimes I think she should take my place; she seems to like the idea of high school drama more than me.

  “I’m not going to tell you again, Rose. If you want to be anyone around here, then you need to earn those boys’ respect or at least their loyalty. I don’t care how you get it, Rose, but you do, unless you’d like to end up as one of those women working nine-to-five, with the highlight of their week being a night in with their cats.”

  “It’s all or nothing with you, Mother,” I hiss quietly, aware of my grandparents. “Maybe there’s an in-between, which will make me far happier. You ever think of that?”

  “Your father was my happy in-between, Rose, and look where that got me. You’ll not be making the same mistakes as me. The heart… it leads to nothing but destruction.”

  Her statement has me pondering the meaning; it implies my father wasn’t of status when they met. He obviously wasn’t an Upper East Sider, being British, but I’d always assumed he had wealth. It’s something I don’t think my parents have ever spoken about, and I get the feeling my mother won’t be open with the story of how they met. It makes sense if he wasn’t though; it explains why my grandparents stopped speaking regularly to my mum once we left America. Maybe she ran off with the poor man, and then my father turned to crime to give my mother the status she’d lost.