Wicked Heartbreaker: A Dark College Bully Romance (Westforde College Book 1)

by Serena Lyons

  “Oh, that explains the accent.” Her eyes drop quickly, she must see my involuntary flinch at the second reminder that I don’t belong here.

  My thick vowels instantly separate me from everyone else’s plummy accent. It’s not as easy to change as my hair, though.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound bad. Your accent is lovely.” Her words run into each other as she trips over her apology. She’s so thin there’s no hiding her trembling limbs. This girl has issues. She makes me think of Millie and my heart softens.

  “You’re a fresher too?” If I understood the bored second-year who showed me to my room, this staircase is filled with first-years. The college building is so old—dating from the 1200s in places, or so the prospectus told me—that the rooms are arranged vertically around staircases, rather than the long communal corridors I expected from visiting less impressive academic institutions.

  “For my sins,” she groans as if it’s the worst thing ever. Not the fanciest college at one of the best universities in the country, maybe even the world.

  “You didn’t want to come here?”

  “Not at all. I tried to flunk my final exams by writing out the question for two hours instead of doing the paper. My second choice was Leeds.” She sighs, like she’s thinking of a long, lost lover. “But the school just got the exam board to write it off as a sign of my mental breakdown. They used my earlier exam grades instead and here I am, no escape.” She smiles mischievously and mimes shooting a bullet through her head.

  I laugh, liking her irreverence, then stop as I remember. Suicide isn’t something to joke about. “What course are you doing?”

  “Psychology and philosophy, maybe I’ll finally understand my crazy family.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Everyone has a crazy family.” Well, I assume mine is, I don’t exactly have much to go on. “But that’s cool, we might have some philosophy lectures together, I’m doing PPE.” I know from her accent that I don’t need to bother explaining it stands for philosophy, politics and economics. Even the teachers at my shitty school needed it spelt out to them.

  “God, I hope so.” She braves a smile. “Apparently I’m the only person in this college doing my course. There’s no way I’ll cope with one-on-one tutorials.”

  We smile at each other, somehow knowing a friendship is forming and something eases in my chest. Maybe life here won’t be so bad after all. “Not coming to the freshers fling?” I ask about the welcoming party for all of us new students. Where I’m finally going to find my prey.

  “I, er, well I don’t really like parties.” Her face flushes with colour and her Bambi eyes widen even further. Something inside me lurches. She needs protecting.

  “Each to their own, babe.” I hope she hears the lack of judgement in my response. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be going to the party either. But I can’t exactly tell her that. “What do you like doing?”

  “Good movies, nice wine, scrabble. I know it’s pathetic, even my parents despair of me.”

  “You’ve described my dream evening. Board games soon?”

  “Really?” She glances over her shoulder, almost as if she’s expecting a hidden camera.

  “One hundred percent. Though be warned, I play to win.” I apply bright red Mac lipstick, then pout at her in the mirror. “Now wish me luck for facing the lion’s den. Something tells me I’m going to be jealous of you back here.” As soon as I finish speaking, I regret my words, I can’t be myself anymore. I can’t be the shy bookworm who hates crowded parties. That’s not going to get me where I need to be with Callum Carter-Wright.

  “I don’t think you need luck,” she laughs, a tiny bit of what seems like envy seeping in. “I think you might be the lion. Everyone’s going to be desperate to get to know you.” She slinks off back into the staircase before I can reply.

  I hope she’s right.

  “Go get him,” I whisper to my reflection.

  The thump of music hits me before I leave the building. They’ve put up a few huge marquees in the centre of the quad, like a society wedding is about to take place. This is not the lame party I was expecting: a dreadlocked DJ spins excellent tracks, handsome bartenders in black tie serve proper drinks and crazy coloured lights whip across the ancient stone of our college buildings. I need a drink.

  “What can I get you?” A Scottish-accented barman asks, his accent a relief in this ocean of gilded people who speak just like the royal family.

  My eyes flicker to a pre-poured tray of champagne glasses, their bubbles sparkling whenever the spotlights hit them. “Er how much is one of those?” I only have a fiver on me. I shouldn’t be wasting any money on alcohol, but I need the courage.

  The barman’s cheek twitches. “It’s a—” he pauses as two designer-clad girls float over and take two of the flutes without even looking at him. “—a free bar.”

  Cheeks burning, I grab a glass of champagne—real crystal, naturally—and make a quick circuit of the throbbing crowd. Even the hired help understand the rules here better than me. I can’t make mistakes like that in front of Callum or his friends, I have to effortlessly belong.

  Nobody pays me much attention. A few of the men—or are they boys? It’s hard to decide with a bunch of eighteen to twenty-two-year-olds—look twice, admiration in their eyes, but no one approaches. The women—definitely not girls—stare for longer, then spin away. I can almost see the calculations in their head, running through their Rolodex of important people and realising I’m missing. Not worth getting to know. If I was here for real, it would be enough to make me want to run to my room in tears.

  If I was living my preferred university experience, I’d be hundreds of miles away, in a cheap city in the north or Scotland. I’d be anonymous, lost in thousands of students who got in on their brains, not their families’ connections. I’d be studying medicine rather than PPE. But this isn’t for me. It’s for her. I’m here as Millie’s avenging angel.

  I don’t want to be liked, I want to be noticed.

  Rule two for ensnaring the most eligible guy in college? Stand out from the masses.

  I could have gone down the identikit posh girl approach; curling, glossy tresses tastefully dyed to look natural, understated pearl and diamond jewellery (albeit fakes for me) and classic clothes with just a hint of sex appeal. I could have pulled it off, Christ knows I watched Millie getting ready enough times, but I’m not going to fade into obscurity.

  My research on Callum Carter-Wright tells me a ‘good girl’ persona wouldn’t hold his attention for as long as I need to. I must be one of a kind; the sexy, intriguing girl with a past. The one everyone’s going to be unable to ignore, even as they judge me and find me wanting. Irreplaceable. Irresistible. Able to uncover all his dirty little secrets.

  My plan is perfect. I smile as more bubbles explode on my tongue. Now I just need to find him.

  Where is he? I’ve scoured his social media enough to know the signs to look for—the people he hangs out with, where he’s likely to be in a party, the posh girls who’ll be circling around him. I enter the final, largest marquee and there are his best friends. He’s close.

  Axel and Rafe. I recognise them from Millie’s photos; handsome, haughty, surrounded by glossy girls. Along with Callum they make up an impossibly cool gang of three that obviously glided straight from the same elite school to college. Their daddies’ paying enough to get them in, even if their grades didn’t qualify them.

  That’s the genius of Westforde College. It charges so much to prospective parents that it subsidises all the regular colleges in the rest of the university where meritocracy rules. Westforde funds their state-of-the-art labs, the stellar faculty, the repairs to the ancient buildings.

  And nobody can even argue that the not-quite-so-clever students drag down the university’s results. The privileged progeny do surprisingly well, able to buy, charm or bribe extra tuition, exam support and award-winning essays. Then their parents’ connections and their unwavering belief in thei
r own brilliance get them the best jobs. And the circle continues. It’s why Westforde is everyone’s number one choice of college.

  I pulled out all the stops to get in. I shudder, remembering what I had to do.

  Enough. That’s all over now. I return to the present. Axel and Rafe. It’s easy to tell who is who. Rafe—the future Duke of Harleigh—is taller, undeniably aristocratic with his swept-back hair and tailored jacket. Axel is sex-on-legs—stocky, scowling, semi-camouflaged tattoos creeping out of every side of his tight, band t-shirt. He’s not as polished as I expected—he seems like he’d be just as comfortable in an underground dive as with all of these privileged students. Interesting. I couldn’t find out anything about his family online, it’s like he didn’t exist before he started Hamley and became friends with Callum. No newspaper articles, no titles, nothing.

  Damn, they notice me staring. I smile a half smile—the new me is not embarrassed or intimidated—raise my champagne glass in a silent toast, then turn away like I’m bored of them now.

  If only I’d seen whether Callum was with them, behind the crowd of fawning girls. I circle the marquee, conscious they might still be watching me, and switch my empty glass for a fresh one.

  As I’m returning to where they were, a large gong sounds from the front of the marquee. The crowd parts as everyone rushes closer to the stage. Everyone except him.

  I’ve finally found him; Callum Carter-Wright.

  He was behind Axel and Rafe, chilling by the wall. He stays there, leaning against the ancient stone, like a model in a vintage catalogue shoot. Staring straight in my direction, as if he knew that I was about to come looking for him. So much more in real life than even his glossy, magazine-perfect Instagram account suggests. His light hair sparkles with a red glint in the flashing lights, his ripped muscles demand my attention, even though he’s dressed down in a plain, black t-shirt and jeans. My eyes fix on the tattoo curled around his left bicep, an elaborate ‘M’ that disappears under his t-shirt. It’s new, I’ve looked at enough topless photos of him to know that. I want to know what it says. Could it be M for Millie? I shake the thought out of my head. I want to run my fingers over his hard muscles and see what else he’s hiding under his t-shirt. I step closer, pulled by a magnet of inevitability.

  His lips curl up in a smirk as if he knows that it’s him making my legs judder forward. He licks his lips and raises an eyebrow. An invitation to the slutty first-year that he thinks he can have at the click of his fingers. He clearly thinks I’m stumbling forward driven by lust, or knowledge that he is it, the big man on the campus, the undisputed leader of us all. What he doesn’t know is what really drives me is something that should scare him. I’m going to tear his life down.

  I fake a bright smile, then bite my bottom lip. His hips twitch against the wall. So easy to play. This will be fun, turning the hunter into the hunted.

  He doesn’t understand my magnet is revenge. He will pay for what he did.

  2: Faith

  I glide toward him until I’m about two metres away. His posture is that of someone entirely unfazed by the world. He seems to assume that I’m drawn to him, expect it as his right. His pillowy lips curl up more, seemingly anticipating the fun he’s going to have playing with me. His mouth opens and part of me aches to know what his first words would have been.

  Instead, I jerk my head as if someone has called my name—a lie, Nina is the only person I’ve met since arriving this afternoon.

  “Coming!” I yell at my imaginary friend, glad the music is loud enough that my voice will be noticed by no one other than Callum. I smile at him, trying to convey a mixture of regret and possibility, then abruptly change direction, joining the rest of the masses in front of the stage.

  Out of the corner of my eye, his smile drops and confusion flits across his features as he seems to realise I’m not about to throw myself at his feet.

  Rule number three for ensnaring the most eligible guy in college? Make him chase you. That should keep his interest. Girls throwing themselves at him are ten-a-penny.

  I push closer to the stage and move my lips like I’m talking to someone, the crowd providing the perfect anonymity while I plan my next move. It’s started well. He most definitely noticed me. Now we need to actually meet, me offering only enough to make him desperate for more. Which means waiting for him to approach me.

  The announcements finish, and the DJ goes back to playing his perfectly pitched set. I lose myself in the crowd, abandoning myself to the music, occasionally glimpsing Callum’s blue eyes staring straight at me. I make no sign of having noticed him.

  As I dance to the beat, I remember Millie’s first exeat weekend back home after she kissed him. She used her burner phone to demand I meet her in the treehouse at midnight.

  “I’m in love.” Her eyes shone with a brightness I’d never seen before.

  “In love?” I raised an eyebrow. I don’t believe in love. Love makes you weak. Vulnerable. Stupid. “I thought all the boys at your school were just that, boys?”

  “We had a mixer dance with Hamley,” she named the most prestigious school in the country. Her lips curled up into a private smile. “He asked me to dance. The most mesmerising man I’ve ever met. Callum Carter-Wright.”

  “Carter-Wright? As in the Carter-Wrights?”

  Millie nodded, biting her lip. “Yah, he’s their oldest.”

  The Carter-Wrights have graced the front covers of every tabloid since the mid-nineties. He’s the lead singer of a British rock band that took over the world, while she is a society princess, turned actress, turned wife, constantly overlooking her husband’s adultery. They have four impossibly handsome children. My heart raced at Millie’s, and therefore also my, proximity to the undisputed king and queen of British celebrity.

  “Hey, haven’t I heard about him before?” I know it’s sad, but I live my life vicariously through Millie. Her school, her circle, is so much more interesting than the goons sniffing glue at my comprehensive. “Isn’t he the huge man-whore player that broke Tiffy’s heart?” Tiffy was Millie’s best friend at school. I tried not to be jealous of her. I was her best friend everywhere else.

  “That was a misunderstanding.” Her cheeks stained dark enough for me to make out in the moonlight. “He just hadn’t found the right girl yet.”

  “Be careful,” I warned her.

  A drunken person bangs into me, jolting me back into the freshers’ party. I shake away the bittersweet thoughts of Millie. Why hadn’t I asked more at the beginning when it could have made a difference?

  Be careful. The easy words of someone not invested enough to really care, I should have said more. But I was jealous of Tiffy. The two of them falling out over a boy would have cemented my position as Millie’s best friend everywhere.

  So fucking selfish of me. I should have offered her more than just words. Well, now I will.

  “May I take this dance?” A thick, male voice rumbles in my ear, close enough that his fiery breath sends a wave of heat all the way to my toes.

  I spin around to face the eyes that have been watching me for the last hour. Deep blue, devastatingly handsome, deadly. My pulse races.

  “That sounds awfully old-fashioned.” I raise an eyebrow but stagger away from him, he’s too close. “Would you like to mark my dance card next?”

  “I’d rather mark something else.” He makes no secret of checking out my body, slowly running his eyes over the curve of my breasts to my long, exposed legs.

  I quiver underneath his gaze, stiffening, arching my back, hating my body’s reaction. My brain doesn’t work to think of the cutting response that I want to give him, instead I just stare at him conscious he’s the hottest man I’ve ever spoken to, his looks amplified by his swagger.

  A new track starts; rocky, sexy.

  “I love this song.” I say, tearing my eyes away from him to look at the dancing crowd.

  “Me too.” He closes the space between us and places his hands on my hips.


  I want to tell him to fuck right off, but I can’t. This is what I want—get close to him, find some proof, then expose the real Callum Carter-Wright to the world. He can’t get away with what he did to Millie.

  “Dance then,” my words clog in my throat as I try to wrestle back some control.

  “As you wish.” His hands slide from my hips to the small of my back and he pulls me closer.

  My heart races, there’s something so powerful about the unapologetic way he moves me, certain he knows best.

  “I hope you can keep up.” His eyes glow with the challenge.

  “You’ll be trying to keep up with me.” He doesn’t faze me, dancing is my passion.

  “Feisty, let’s see if you’re still standing at the end of the song.” One hand guides my lower back, while the other one moves in time to the music. He doesn’t just dance, he performs, becomes an extension of the beat.

  I melt into him. We move as one, like we’ve been dancing together for years. I forget that I hate him. This is the first time I’ve danced with a man this talented. I smile as our moves get bolder: one of us trying something out, the other upping the ante. My heart is thumping from the exercise and the shivers of anticipation Callum’s hands cause every time they graze my arm, my hips, my ass. It’s like this dance is foreplay.

  He pulls me tight against him, so close I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. My nipples tighten as his eyes lock on to mine. “Trust me?” He murmurs his hands sliding down to grab my hips.

  “Yes,” I lie. Then I’m hurtling up through the air, Callum lifting me like I’m weightless. My breath catches—not from fear, I’m used to doing aerial moves in cheerleading—but from how effortless Callum makes it seem, there’s no shaking in his arms.

  If I was in a different outfit, I’d tumble down and really show him who’s the better dancer, but my skirt is barely there and exposing my underwear to college isn’t the impression I want to give. Instead I lean back and slide down his body, rubbing over every inch of him as I slowly descend to the crowd. His eyes flash with hunger as my face passes his, his hand lifting up to stroke my cheek as if he’s about to kiss me, but as soon as my heels touch the floor, I start dancing again, and he falls into step.