Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Little White Lies
Acknowledgements
Also By Sapphire
Common Terms Cajun French Slang
Prologue
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
Ugly Dark Truth
Chapter 18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Keep Up With Sapphire
Harvard Academy Duet
Copyright © 2019 by Sapphire Knight
Cover Design by CT Cover Creations
Editing by Mitzi Carroll
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
WARNING
This novel includes graphic language and adult situations. It may be offensive to some readers and includes situations that may be hotspots for certain individuals. This book is intended for ages 16 and older due to some steamy spots. This work is fictional. The story is meant to entertain the reader and may not always be completely accurate. Any reproduction of these works without Author Sapphire Knight’s written consent is pirating and will be punished to the fullest extent of the law.
This book is fiction.
The guys are over-the-top alphas.
My men and women are nuts.
This is not real.
Don’t steal my shit.
Read for enjoyment.
This is not your momma’s cookbook.
Easily offended people should not read this.
Don’t be a dick.
Acknowledgements
My husband – I love you more than words can express. Thank you for the support you’ve shown me. Some days you drive me crazy; other days I just want to kiss your face off. Who knew this would turn out to be our life, but in this journey, I wouldn’t want to spend it with anyone else. Thanks for falling for my brand of crazy. I love you, I’m thankful for you, I can’t say it enough.
My boys – You are my whole world. I love you both. This never changes, and you better not be reading these books until you’re thirty and tell yourself your momma did not write them! I can never express how grateful I am for your support. You are quick to tell me that my career makes you proud, that I make you proud. As far as mom wins go, that one takes the cake. I love you with every beat of my heart, and I will forever.
My Beta Babes – Lindsey K., Patti W., and Wendi H. this wouldn’t be possible without you. I can’t express my gratitude enough for each of you. Thank you so much!
Editor Mitzi Carroll – Your hard work makes mine stand out, and I’m so grateful! Thank you for pouring tons of hours into my passion and being so wonderful to me. Thank you for your friendship and support.
Cover Designer Clarise Tan – I cannot thank you enough for the wonderful work you’ve done for me. Your support truly means so much. I can’t wait to see our future projects; you always blow me away. You are a creative genius!
Formatting – Thank you so much for making my books always look professional and beautiful. I truly appreciate it and the kindness you’ve shown me. I know I can depend on you even in short notice and it’s so refreshing. You are always quick and efficient, thank you!!!
My Blogger Friends – YOU ARE AMAZING! I LOVE YOU! No, really, I do!!! You take a new chance on me with each book and in return, share my passion with the world. You never truly get enough credit, and I’m forever grateful!
My Readers – I love you. You make my life possible, thank you. I can’t wait to meet many of you this year and in the future!
Hil and Vic – Love you two and thank you for always supporting me!
Also By Sapphire:
Oath Keepers MC Series
Secrets
Exposed
Relinquish
Forsaken Control
Friction
Princess
Sweet Surrender – free short story
Love and Obey – free short story
Daydream
Baby
Chevelle
Cherry
Blaze (Coming Soon)
Russkaya Mafiya Series
Secrets
Corrupted
Corrupted Counterparts – free short story
Unwanted Sacrifices
Undercover Intentions
Dirty Down South Series
Freight Train
3 Times the Heat
2 Times the Bliss
Complete Standalones
Gangster
Unexpected Forfeit
The Main Event – free short story
Oath Keepers MC Collection
Russian Roulette
Tease – Short Story Collection
Oath Keepers MC Hybrid Collection
The Vendetti Duet
Viking - free newsletter short story
Capo Dei Capi Vendetti Duet
The Vendetti Empire - part 1
The Vendetti Queen - part 2
Harvard Academy Elite Duet
Little White Lies
Ugly Dark Truth
Harvard Academy Elite Duet
Dedicated to:
All of you taking a chance on me for the first time.
Thank you!
Common Terms Cajun French Slang:
mon cher – my dear
podnas – partners/friends/brothers
non – no
belle – beauty
Eleventh grade—again.
S
uch bullshit to be repeating my junior year, but for Cole, I will. I’ll do anything for my brother, even if it means attending an additional year of high school and throwing a wrench in my college plans. It’s not that my brother is too stupid to pass the grade; he’s just lazy. Hell, I didn’t realize the asshole was failing until it was nearly the end of the year and a letter showed up for truancy. We’d gotten them several times in the past, and in response, we’d adapt, randomly missing a class to show up in his place, and my father would step in to make a “donation.”
It was too easy since we’re identical; at least it was up until high school. Cole is, how should I put it...he’s lean. His body is tall and lithe, more like a swimmer’s body. He’s strong, just not muscular like I am. I plan to pla
y college football, so I hit the weights daily. My brother, however, will major in shamming, I’m sure.
Not only will I be eighteen in eleventh grade, but our father is uprooting us to an entirely different state. Traveling’s not the issue; it’s giving up the private academy that we’ve basically run since we hit puberty. The teachers have easily bent to our will, especially being that I’m the best on the football team. They’ve all loved me. Girls have always been plentiful; even their mothers tend to become giggly around me. Now, however, everything’s being shaken up, all because our father has become restless.
Dad’s wealthy enough he doesn’t need to work, but he enjoys it too much to stop. I guess overthrowing companies could be entertaining. Most who cross his path in the business world call him a heartless shark. His company has offices all over the world, so he’s home about a week a month. I don’t see his reasoning to pack us up and move us practically across the country when he won’t be home much anyhow.
We’ve lived in Louisiana nearly my entire life, and I’ve loved it there. The South is a different type of living, with our southern belles and wealthy playboys. If you’re like me, amongst the richest, then your heart’s desire is right at your fingertips, ripe for the plucking. Dear old Dad seems dead set on moving us from the sunshine and warmth to freezing our nuts off in the northeast. We’ve attempted to “discuss” it, but it’s no use. Turning eighteen has lit the fire under our father’s ass when it comes to college; he’s determined to see his sons into Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Vanderbilt, or Brown University.
Rather than moving us to New York near his office in the city, he’s moved us to the middle-of-nowhere Massachusetts. We go from bikinis and suntans to buckets of snow and Harvard Academy—the preparatory school exclusively linked to Harvard University. It takes some serious connections and cash to get in the door, but we’re a shoo-in, and faster than I can blink, we’re playing footsie with the Northerners. After all, we’re the elite.
A
nother day stuck in my miserable life of walking on eggshells around an angry father. He’s successful and charming anywhere else, but here, he’s just plain mean. He has so many people fooled; they have no clue what it’s like to live with him or to be in my shoes. The cutting remarks he randomly makes when he’s not happy—for whatever reason—causes my own anger to surface…not that I can act on it, or anything.
I can’t help wondering what I ever did to deserve his wrath. Mom may not share in his irritability, but she’s still a disappointment to me. She never holds true to anything she says; at least she hasn’t in the past. She wants a perfect family and a perfect daughter without doing any actual parenting—though most wealthy people rarely parent their own children. We’re usually sent off to boarding schools and raised up by the help. In my case, I’m stuck with Harvard Academy and living each day questioning my life.
I’m not perfect—far from it, in fact, and I’d never fool myself trying to believe otherwise.
I catch grief for burying my head in books and keeping to myself, but in books, I can escape. I can be anywhere and be anyone without someone else criticizing me or causing my anxiety to flair from those invisible eggshells I’ve tiptoed over for most of my life. It’s become routine and I find myself doing it when it’s not necessary as well. Running is another tool that I’ve discovered helps me survive the daily dose of life. No one questions that habit, however. If anything, I’m suddenly invisible—out of sight, out of mind. It also keeps Mom off my back about not being the stereotypical size expected of a rich young lady.
I stumbled into my love of running pretty much by accident. It’s not often you meet a teenager who actually enjoys running unless they’re on the track team or they’re body conscious. I was a bit pudgy growing up—always taller and thicker than the other frail girls in my classes. Mother wasn’t amused with having the chubby daughter, though she did her best not to completely wreck my self-image. The summer that I was fourteen years old, dear old, thoughtful Mom sent me away to camp. I guess in her own way, she was protecting my brother and me by getting us out of the house. She claims it was to shoulder the brunt of my father’s latest frustrations, even though I’m not sure if I buy it completely. There had to have been something in it for her by sending us away; that’s how she’s always been.
The camp instructors fully believed in a lot of physical activity amongst not having junk food readily available. Many of us left to go back home leaner, stronger, and most of all, healthier. It was like a fog had been lifted from my mind. I suddenly felt recharged with goals and a future mapped out. Not only that, but I haven’t grown an inch since then, and the leaner frame was a blessing in disguise.
For once in my life, my so-called “normal, day to day” didn’t feel so acceptable to me anymore. I wanted out of here, and in order to do that, I had to be mentally and physically strong. It’s incredible what one summer around the right people can change for a person. I’ve returned every year since and am not thrilled to be home for the upcoming school year. After an amazing time with people I cherish and respect, I’m thrown back into the fold of chaos, known as my family.
Lady Gaga blares through my headphones as I put one foot in front of the other, my feet pounding away one step at a time on the hot pavement. Her music’s so-so, not on my favorites per se, but it’s good at helping me zone out. Running and zoning out has fast become my favorite form of self-therapy away from camp.
The cool breeze floats over my flushed skin, perspiration flying off my forehead as I pick up my pace for the last stretch. This is it—my last bit of freedom as tomorrow classes begin again. I’ll officially be a junior and one step closer to my plan to get the hell out of my parents’ house.
Drawing in a deep breath, I release a controlled, slow exhale as my pace reduces to a power walk. I keep going, rounding in a couple of large circles in the middle of the road in front of our driveway. My body begins to cool down, and my pace slows to measured steps. I can feel eyes on me, and they definitely aren’t coming from my own house.
I noticed a few large moving trucks parked two houses over, open to be unloaded. The place is massive, so I can see why they have multiple trucks there. They must be reasonably wealthy to afford it. That’s just another thing Father will end up being pissed about, no doubt. He likes to be the top on the neighborhood totem pole, so to speak, and that house is no doubt as big as ours is.
Moving my arm above me, I rest my palm against the rock pillar to the iron fence surrounding our property. Using my free hand, I hike my leg up behind me and begin to stretch out the muscle. With the movement, I catch site of a random guy leaning up against one of the neighboring trees. The shade from the enormous Burr Oak camouflaged him, and I almost didn’t notice him. I hadn’t even felt his stare as I ran by; it makes me wonder how many others I’ve passed and hadn’t realized it. Not that I care if anyone notices me running or anything. It’s just that I should have some sense for my personal safety, even if we are in a quiet, wealthy neighborhood.
With a winded huff, I grab for the water bottle that I’d left next to the gate. Opening wide, I guzzle the refreshment down in large, unladylike gulps. My mother would be chastising me, but I can’t bring myself to care in the slightest about that either. I had a good run, and my limbs almost feel like jelly at the moment.
I still sense the guy’s eyes in my direction, so I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth and turn to face him. I can only imagine what I must look like. My cropped T-shirt is completely soaked through with sweat, my light lilac-tinted hair is a frazzled mess—even in the ponytail, and my skin’s flushed cherry red as if I’ve been sunburned. I’m definitely not the most attractive I could be, so why on earth has this dude not turned away absolutely repulsed yet? If he’s in this neighborhood, he’s used to being around pretty, prissy girls if I had to guess, and I’m nothing like that.
“Are you lost?” I ask, waving my hand with a bit more attitude than I’d intended. With closer
inspection, I find the guy to be around my own age, with stutter-worthy good looks. Of course, he’d be hot. I’m a wreck at the moment and expect nothing less.
He’s practically gawking, and I swear at the rate he’s going, his neck may break if he attempts to turn away. In normal circumstances, we’d never be able to speak to our neighbors without calling or emailing. The houses are set so far apart, you can’t shout out to your neighbors and be heard. The driveway entrances are somewhat near each other though, as they twist around and meet up with the asphalt, hence me being close enough to ask him now.
He swaggers closer. Yes, I said swagger—there’s nothing ordinary with his step. The guy struts as if he owns Country Trails in its entirety. He doesn’t though; I know this because my father plays golf with the owner of the housing development that’s been built specifically for the upper class. God forbid he has to live around ordinary people or anything. Not that this guy strikes me as ordinary; he’s on the opposite end of the spectrum.
“Are you part of the moving crew?” I ask, attempting to get him to speak and break up the awkwardness. It’s bad enough that he’s so good-looking, I feel like I’m bumbling being the first one to speak.
The Andersons put their mansion on the market, and it sold in three weeks. I was shocked coming home from camp the other day to see the sold sign. I didn’t know the couple well, just waved at them occasionally when I was on my runs, and they’d drive past in their bright yellow Bugatti.
“Non.” He shakes his head, and I do a double take. His voice is laced with some sort of twang, and my curiosity spikes higher. Does he even speak English? What does non mean?
I can’t help but wonder if he’s on our street looking to rob someone, but I’m familiar with the designer of the shirt he’s wearing, and only rich boys can afford a white T-shirt with that twisty logo. They easily sell for seventy-five dollars a pop, and the semi baggy, dark heather gray sweatpants aren’t just your run-of-the-mill department store brand either. My little brother got some just like those a few months back, and my mom dropped two hundred fifteen dollars for them. They’re sweats for God’s sake, and I happen to know that my sixty-dollar Victoria’s Secret yoga’s are comfier than the more expensive brands. Or maybe I’m wrong, and this guy’s been digging through someone else’s belongings. It is the night before trash comes to pick up, after all.
Harvard Academy Elite Page 1
