Revenge: An Elite High School Bully Romance (Kings of Mercia Academy Book 2) Read online

  Revenge

  Kings of Mercia Academy Book 2

  Sofia Daniel

  Copyright © 2019 by Sofia Daniel.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.SofiaDaniel.com

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 21

  From Sofia Daniel

  Chapter 1

  It was strange. Here I was, sitting in the open plan office of the Saturday Correspondent, working the exact job I’d been desperate to do, yet all I could think about was Mercia Academy. A group of young secretaries stood by the windows, laughing at some joke, and my insides cringed. I dipped my head, breathing hard to remind myself that people at the Correspondent didn’t scheme against colleagues.

  If I wasn’t so antsy, I might have enjoyed the atmosphere. My desk was sandwiched between two enthusiastic, young journalists who were always willing to share war stories about working for a newspaper. Opposite was a gossip columnist who told the most scandalous stories, and on the other side was a girl five years older, who had graduated with a degree in journalism.

  A red-haired intern wearing tinsel around her neck brought back coffees from her Starbucks run and placed a latte on my desk. I handed her my cash and checked the messages on my smartphone. Rudolph hadn’t called or texted or emailed in two weeks to update me on his negotiations for my re-entry into the academy. I was beginning to think he’d forgotten about me.

  On the far left, Jackie’s door opened. She was our Editor-In-Chief. The older woman’s bleached blonde hair flopped over her face as she peered out into the open-plan office. “Emilia? A word.”

  I pulled myself out of my seat, nearly knocking down an over-decorated Christmas tree. After steadying it on its stand, I circled the nest of desks and walked to the editor’s office. Jackie was a petite woman with a heavily lined face who dressed in skinny jeans and tank tops.

  It was hard to tell her age, as she smoked cigarillos that rasped her voice and puckered her lips. Since she’d taken me in as an intern, I’d stuck by her side, attending interviews, press conferences, and meetings. It had been a crash course in journalism.

  She perched herself on the edge of her desk, palms spread on its surface. “What do you know about classical music?”

  “Not much… Why?”

  “Sergei Bachmann, the son of the late Vasily Bachmann, is making his debut in London. I want you to learn everything you can about his father’s death and uncover why Sergei was unknown in the music circuit until now.”

  I nodded, my gaze traveling down to her desk. It landed on two tickets to the Royal Academy Charity Ball. The one Edward had invited me to attend as the triumvirate’s date. A lump formed in my throat, and my shoulders drooped. The day I’d agreed to date all three of them marked the start of my downfall. If I had refused, the boys might have backed off. Instead, they tangled me further into their web, and my feelings for Henry now extended to Edward and Blake.

  A sigh slid from my lips. How I yearned to rip their guts out and make them feel the gut-wrenching agony of such a horrific betrayal.

  “Emilia?”

  My gaze snapped up to Jackie. “Sorry… Yes… I’ll read up on Bachmann.”

  The corner of her lips quirked into a smile. “What’s wrong? Enthusiasm for journalism waning?”

  “No.” I shook my head, my gaze falling back onto the tickets. “But Rudolph said he’d have news by now, and—”

  She held up a hand. “We’re getting you back into Mercia Academy.” She nodded to the desk outside the door, where a strawberry-blond haired man cross-referenced data from two screens. “Charlie is linking all the students you named to aristocratic families, government departments, and big business. “It’s just going to take a little more time.”

  I dipped my head. “Right.”

  “Hey,” she said.

  My head snapped up.

  “Enjoy your time here, because when you return to Mercia, it will be a hard slog.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Rudolph’s making us do things differently around here.” She pushed herself off the desk and strode across the room, bringing with her the scent of stale tobacco. “You’ll have to record friends and classmates and send the files back to us, so we can put together stories based on insider information. Are you alright with that?”

  I straightened. The triumvirate had framed me for kidnapping, and I thirsted for revenge. “That’s fine with me.”

  “These methods aren’t above board or even legal.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Are you sure?”

  My jaws clenched. Was she asking if I was having second thoughts? I gave her a sharp nod. “If that’s what I have to do to take these guys down, I’ll do it.”

  Jackie made a rasping chuckle and gave me a pat on the arm. “Good! In the meantime, you can learn the ropes of the profession. It’s not all about undercover work.”

  I pulled my gaze away from the tickets. Even if I wanted to confront the boys about framing me for kidnapping Henry, it would mean standing outside the Royal Academy building in the freezing cold, waiting for them to arrive. And it probably might jeopardize our plan for me to get the dirt on their families to publish in the Saturday Correspondent.

  Giving Jackie what I hoped was an enthusiastic smile, I chirped, “I’ll get right on researching Bachmann!”

  Another week passed with still no word from Rudolph. I slouched at my desk, swirling the remnants of my hot chocolate and pushed away the memory of Mr. Carbuncle manhandling me through the crowd of angry sixth-formers. My arm throbbed in remembrance. The terrible janitor had acted as though he blamed me that the ambush he’d set up with Charlotte had turned violent and bloodthirsty.

  I shook away those thoughts. Rudolph couldn’t have forgotten about me. He had been just as eager to bring down the Bourneville family, who had lied about the ransom amount and asked for double to drop the criminal charges against me. He also wanted to hurt the headmaster of Mercia Academy for demanding an unnecessary donation to expunge my school records. I stared into my notepad, barely seeing the shorthand symbols. Jackie was right. I had to be patient.

  One morning, I was putting the finishing touches to a piece on elitism within British public schools, when my cellphone rang. My heart thrummed with excitement as I scrambled to click the answer button. It was from an Unknown Caller, but that could mean anything. Even Rudolph from one of his many offices around the world or one of his many assistants.

  “H-hello?”

  “Hi, this is Frank from the Tom Ford concession at Bourneville’s. We’ve completed the adjustments to your gown, and it’s ready to be picked up.”

  My heart flip-flopped. Regardless of what had happened, I still wanted that gown. “I-I’ll come at lunchtime.”

  Bourneville’s department store wasn’t quite so magical when approached from Piccadilly Circ
us tube and with the cold wind mingling with exhaust fumes from double-decker buses, but its beautiful, stone Georgian exterior reminded me of Mercia Academy so much, my heart ached. Those weeks before everything had gone wrong had been a whirl of dancing lessons and of basking in the affection of the three most handsome and witty boys in the academy.

  I closed my eyes, letting the cacophony of traffic fill my ears. But it did nothing to distract me from the painful truth. The triumvirate’s affection and attention had been an illusion created to distract me from discovering the truth. I forced the memories out of my head and stepped through a set of automatic doors.

  Ignoring the fragrant aromas from the perfume and makeup counters, I made my way toward the escalator. As soon as the device pulled me up to the first floor, I scanned the walls at the far distance, passing over security guards to catch a glimpse of Henry. My heart sank, as did my self-respect. Had I always been this pathetic?

  The man who had originally fitted me into the dress wasn’t at the Tom Ford concession, but the young woman advised me to try on the gown to see if it needed any last minute adjustments. I refused and took the dress away. It wasn’t like I would ever use it. This wasn’t Cinderella, and Jackie was no fairy godmother. She was more likely to take her husband to the charity ball than some intern who had been foisted on her by the tycoon who had bought her newspaper.

  When I returned to her office, she had already started her interview with Sergei Bachmann, a young man who couldn’t be more than nineteen. He sat on her leather sofa with his back ramrod straight, and his arms folded across his chest.

  Sergei had the look of someone who would be distinctive when they were older: long black hair, strong eyebrows, and a patrician nose. Combined with high cheekbones and startling, aquamarine eyes, the effect was rather striking. Leaning against the wall was a handsome blond man who looked like a bodyguard.

  “Sergei, may I introduce you to Emilia Hobson, our intern.” There was an edge to Jackie’s voice that said she was only tolerating my lateness because of my connection to Rudolph.

  Shame crawled through my gut. My eagerness to grasp anything related to the triumvirate was now affecting my internship. What had made me think I could travel from Fleet Street to Piccadilly Circus and grab a sandwich in less than an hour? I held out my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Sergei stood and brought my knuckles to his lips. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought you were Russian.”

  He flicked his black hair off his face. “I spent most of my years at the Institut de la Musique in Paris. A fine school, but we did not have girls as charming as you.”

  I shot Jackie a nervous glance, but she gave me one of those subtle nods that told me to flirt back.

  Batting my lashes, I twirled a strand of my light, auburn hair. “I heard you were playing at the Royal Academy charity ball in a few days, Mr. Bachmann.”

  “Call me Sergei.” His lips quirked into a smile.

  “I’d love to see you perform.” My voice rose a few octaves.

  His beautiful blue eyes twinkled, reminding me somewhat of Edward’s. “Then you must come as my guest.”

  Butterflies took flight in my stomach. If I arrived at the ball on the arm of an up-and-coming musician, the triumvirate would have to notice me. I had expected one of them, maybe Blake or Henry, to call, but the three maintained a wall of silence that implied they had discarded me like used chewing gum.

  A gust of triumph inflated my chest. Soon, the triumvirate would know I hadn’t been packed of to the States like. My face broke into a smile. “Thank you, Sergei, I’d be delighted.”

  Chapter 2

  The next few days whizzed by, each evening spent trying on the Tom Ford gown in my hotel room and experimenting with different hairstyles and accessories. The silk ivory garment hugged my b-cup breasts, cradled my waist, and skimmed the swell of my hips, ending in a dramatic fall of bias-cut fabric to my ankles. I swept my light hair into a chignon, exposing my neck and teardrop gold earrings. The only other piece of jewelry in my ensemble was a matching, gold bracelet.

  “Stunning, not desperate,” I repeated a mantra I’d recited most nights. “Elegant and aloof.”

  I may have looked like a debutante, but I felt like an impostor. Jackie told me to gather whatever I could about Sergei, and I agreed but refused her offer of a recording device on the grounds that it would spoil the line of my dress.

  On the evening of the ball, Sergei picked me up from the foyer of my hotel, a marble-floored space lit by dozens of chandeliers. The man looked devastatingly handsome in a tuxedo and one of those black capes lined in red silk worn by suave fiends like Dracula. His glossy, black hair hung over his shoulders, making me wonder what Edward would look like if he didn’t keep his own short.

  Sergei’s gaze swept up and down my gown, settling on my shoes. I’d bought them two days before and had wiped out my bank account. “Emilia,” he said in an accent that was a mix of French and Russian. “You look enchanting.”

  Pride made my chest swell. If I could impress a Paris-educated classical musician, I could probably impress the triumvirate. “Thanks. So do you.”

  He held out his arm, and we strolled out of the marble reception room, into the crisp, London evening, and to his limousine. I settled into the plush, leather seat, and he joined me opposite. Then the blond bodyguard from the interview stepped inside, sat to my right, and gave me a nod of greeting.

  The limo pulled out from the curb and drove through central London. I’d seen it all before in the daytime, but after dark, the city looked magical lit up with Christmas lights fashioned in a multitude of festive shapes. I glanced at Sergei, wondering why someone as sophisticated as him had asked me out.

  “How long have you been working with the newspaper?” he asked.

  “A few weeks.” I straightened in my seat. “It’s sort of a holiday internship. I’m supposed to be going back to school in January.”

  His dark brows rose. “You study here in London?”

  “No.” I swallowed hard. “My academy is a boarding school in Mercia county.”

  The blond bodyguard twisted in his seat. “You have a boyfriend in this school?”

  An iron fist of betrayal clutched at my heart and twisted. How did I answer a question like that? I’d had three, but they all turned out to be bastards, and now I can’t stop thinking about them. Sorry, Mr. Bodyguard, but I’m dating your client under false pretenses.

  Sergei patted my left hand. “Andreo is too curious. I can tell someone broke your heart. You don’t have to talk about it if it still hurts.”

  I dipped my head. “Thanks.”

  Minutes later, the limo joined a line of similar vehicles outside the Royal Academy, an imposing building built like an opera house with a vaulted ceiling for acoustics. Dozens of paparazzi stood outside, snapping pictures of the guests. An empty pit opened up in my stomach, filled by the flutter of a flock of butterflies. I held my hand over my heart and gulped in lungfuls of air. How did Mom cope with being a society wife, going to function after function and finding her pictures plastered all over the news and the internet?

  “My commission doesn’t start until eleven.” Sergei glanced at the time on his phone. “That gives us plenty of time to have fun at the ball.”

  I smiled and nodded, but my stomach churned as our limo rolled to the red carpet. Sergei stepped out first, then took my hand and helped me out of the vehicle.

  Cameras flashed. I blinked into the blinding light. Photographers closed in on us like a gauntlet, and my chest tightened. The feel of hot, angry bodies pressing in on me, raining blows on my arms, my head, my back, returned as though I was still on the ground floor of Elder House.

  “It’s not real,” I whispered under my breath with a fixed smile I hoped wouldn’t look too strained. “It’s only photos.”

  We walked arm in arm toward the building with Andreo and five other men in suits close behind.

&
nbsp; I glanced at them over my shoulder and stiffened. “What’s going on?”

  “They’re bodyguards,” murmured Sergei. “My father made a lot of enemies before he died.”

  Oddly, the thought of these enemies didn’t frighten me as much as the notion of photographers piling on top of me and crushing the air out of my lungs. The investigative journalist part of me itched to ask more questions, but I tamped down my curiosity. I hadn’t heard from Mom since leaving New York, and the loss of contact was an ache that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a parent die, and I wouldn’t probe.

  I gave Sergei what I hoped was a sympathetic smile, and we followed the red carpet through a grand hallway that boasted pictures of musicians from all eras. Sergei pointed out a photo of a severe-looking man with strong, angular features, cast mostly in shadow. It was his father, Vasily Bachmann. I glanced at Sergei’s softer features. Whoever his father had married, she must have been beautiful.

  The Royal Academy ballroom had the feel of a cathedral. Tall pillars on the edges of the dance floor stretched up into arches that supported a vaulted ceiling three stories high. Behind them stretched dining tables and chairs, already occupied by those not dancing. Arched windows ran along the highest levels of the ceiling, which would have brought in a spectacular amount of light during the day. At the far end of the room stood a raised stage for the orchestra with a grand piano.

  At the sight of the elegant couples swirling around the dance floor, my stomach flip-flopped. They were all dancing the Viennese waltz, a fast version of the dance where the female partner leaned backward and spun in circles around the dance floor. My dance instructor at Park Prep had said I didn’t have the aptitude for this type of movement and had advised me to feign tiredness to avoid humiliating myself at a ball.