Hearts Break: A Dark Stepbrother Bully Romance (Wicked Hearts At War Book 3)

  Hearts Break

  Wicked Hearts At War Book Three

  Mallory Fox

  Black Jade Publishing

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Also by Mallory Fox

  Acknowledgements

  Join My Heartbreaker Club

  About the Author

  Hearts Break

  Copyright © July 2020 by Mallory Fox

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this publication only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the copyright holder’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published in the United Kingdom by

  Black Jade Publishing Ltd.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by The Book Brander

  Editing by Indie Hub

  To Sam.

  Thanks for EVERYTHING.

  I couldn’t have survived these last few months without my amazing PA, PR guru, world class agent, sounding board, person to vent to, insomnia buddy, cheerleader, RAD cofounder, talented teaser maker, most organized person ever, fabulous cover designer, and on top of all that, a wonderful friend.

  ❤

  Prologue

  Seth

  How do you justify fucking over someone else’s life?

  Easy. You tell yourself they deserve it. That she had it coming. That she brought it upon herself. That it’s retribution because you don’t give a fuck what happens anymore, and she can rot in the hell you built for her.

  Even if I loved her once.

  Because, love. It rips your fucking heart out.

  The way she looked the second I walked through the door… cold, heartless, empty; it shot me down where I stood.

  I had all the fucking apologies in my head ready to lay at her feet. I had all the excuses in the world. And I would have given it to her, the world, had she asked. But she just stood there and watched them drag me away, and all she could say was I’m sorry. A thousand times not enough. A thousand seconds too fucking late. While my fucking heart was breaking in my goddam chest.

  All I could think was, over and over…

  This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. Why the fuck would she do this? What did I do that was so terrible, she would betray me for it?

  If she could do this.

  If I’ve got us so damn wrong.

  Then I may as well be fucking dead.

  I loved Pearl Darlington once.

  I don’t anymore.

  Chapter 1

  Pearl

  On the back doorstep is another package. I peel my eyes away from it, ignoring the tightness in my chest and the swirling in my gut as I look out at the garden. Of course, it’s empty. There’s no one in the garden dropping off fucking mystery parcels. I know it’s another one because the postman doesn’t usually leave packages on the back doorstep and the box is lacking any postal stamps or address labels.

  No. I know what this is.

  And who it’s from.

  I’m hesitant to take it inside and open it because of the smell and the questions. But I can’t leave it here for Grams or Eleanor to find, or worse Sophia when she goes out to play.

  I need to deal with this now. Fuck.

  “Pearl, who is it?” Grams shouts from the kitchen.

  “No one,” I shout back, and I close the door for a moment to take a deep breath, calming my nerves. Then, I grab my coat from the rack, kicking my slippers off and slipping on a pair of wellies.

  Chest throbbing, I scoop up the package on my way out of the house and walk all the way down the garden path to the little shed hidden at the end of it. There’s a tall gate at the bottom of the garden that connects to the surrounding woods. I take a moment to check there’s no one on the other side of the gate and that the security camera that points to it is still working, and then I quickly enter the shed.

  No assassins are lurking inside so I dump the package on the potting table and lock the door behind me with shaking hands. Coffee withdrawal, fear, or anticipation of what’s inside the package. Any and all of those could be the reason for my jitters.

  When I’m finally convinced that no one is coming into the shed after me, I turn back to the innocent-looking box on the table and stare at it. Whatever’s inside is not innocent. This is the third package so far. The first one I opened in the kitchen without thinking and almost had a heart attack. I didn’t notice the stench, though I should have.

  This one has the same faint smell of death as the other two, so I know what’s inside. I don’t want to open it. I’d rather throw the offending thing in the bin and be done with it, but I can’t. Just like the other two, there will be a message inside.

  I have to know what it says.

  With bated breath, I take a pair of shears and slice the seam of tape holding the lid of the package closed. The foul odor is worse now the seal is open. Gingerly, I pull the flaps aside to reveal the contents and step back, holding my hand over my mouth.

  It’s a dead swan.

  Beautiful white feathers are no longer pristine white, they’re caked in blood. Its neck has been broken and stuffed in at an odd angle so that its beak rests in the centre holding a fresh red rose like some kind of morbid centerpiece. I swallow and blink my eyes, trying not to breathe in through my nose and really look at it. Tucked under the swan’s wing is a red stained envelope. I step closer hoping to just grab it, but the congealed bits on it makes my empty stomach turn and has me retreating to lean against a far wall to dry retch.

  It would have to be a fucking swan. Last time it was a pair of doves with their bodies sewn together, sitting inside a wreathe of roses so it looked like something out of a horror movie. The first one was the worst though. A snowy owl. Sophia loves owls, ever since she became obsessed with wizards. It nearly killed me to see its head cut off and its eyes removed so two roses could be shoved in their place.

  Whoever is sending these twisted displays is sick in the head.

  I try again to extract the envelope and succeed this time, wincing at the sound of the paper unsticking. The blood hasn’t yet dried. I should probably get someone in here to do a forensic check to make sure it’s not human blood and dust for prints, but…

  I already know who’s sending me these sick surprises.

  Mouth dry, trying not to breathe thr
ough my nose, I rip open the letter to reveal a card. I read it a few times before taking out my phone and snapping a few pictures of the card and the contents of the box for evidence. Then, I close over the lid and walk out of the shed. Security will see to disposing of it.

  As I walk back to the house, I look down. In my trembling hands is the little pink card illustrated with hearts and flowers, like something you’d get for valentines on your hand-tied bouquet or expensive box of chocolates. I stare at it one more time, reading the words, before heading back into the kitchen to make breakfast and act like nothing happened.

  Because that’s what I do now. I pretend like everything is fine and I’m not fighting a never-ending court battle or losing my inheritance, that I haven’t lost my best friend or my childhood dream… like no one is sending me death threats.

  Come and see me soon, little mouse, or I’ll do more than break your pretty, little neck.

  The handwriting is neat and precise, and I’ve seen it so many times before on the documents that Montford International sent over when they were trying to buy us out. Seth’s handwriting is much the same. He curls his Bs and flicks the end of his Ls just like that. But it can’t be Seth’s handwriting because no one knows where Seth is, and Marcel, his grandfather, is the one who actually wants me dead.

  Of that, I’m bloody sure.

  Trembling, I take out my phone and dial Gabby’s number. Sophia, seated at the kitchen table, grins at me as she pops a blueberry into her mouth. There’s a splodge of porridge stuck to her cheek. The phone rings, and I stick out my tongue at her as Eleanor bustles by me to wipe her face. Grams is reading the Financial Times as she has done every day since she was married, just so she has something to talk to her dead husband about when she visits the cemetery at the weekend.

  I never go with her, although she’s asked me time and time again. Why would I want to see the Darlington mausoleum almost half full? The place creeps me out, reminding me that there’s a bloody curse hanging over our family. So, Grams takes Sophie and I sit at home and drink a large glass of wine and swipe through Commercial Interiors Weekly, the digital version, until they get back. This is my life now.

  “Hello? Pearl? Is that you?” Gabby breathes down phone as she answers. Gabby has one of those seductive accents that you want to listen to for hours. If I was into girls, Gabby is who I would choose. She’s the male version of Seth—all temptation and darkness with a hint of honey.

  Speaking of Seth…

  I move to the conservatory, bushing past the Christmas tree and all the presents underneath, leaving the warmth of the kitchen and closing the door behind me. There’s a dull ache as I remember what happened that one Christmas five years ago, but I breathe in and out watching my breath fog in the air and then dissipate.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I finally say.

  “I got your message. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong? In your last message you said he’d disappeared.”

  Gabby has been spying on Seth for me since I was suspended. Last night she informed me that he still hadn’t come back to the lake house, and that no one knew where he was. I’ve no idea where he is and it’s making me nervous.

  “He’ll come back. This is Seth. When has he ever left you?”

  Her words do nothing to settle the unease that’s been worming its way through my insides for the last twelve hours. As soon as she messaged me, I called her. Gabby being her fickle self didn’t bloody answer.

  “That’s not the point,” I exclaim. “He could be anywhere. He could be here.” For a split second, I wonder if Seth is behind the packages, but my mind immediately rejects it. It’s not him. I don’t know how or why I know that, but I do.

  Goosebumps prickle my bare arms and I rub one with my free hand, and then shift the phone to my other ear so I can rub the other one. This may be the sunroom, but in December, in the middle of winter, this part of the house as frigid as anything. I should have put my cardigan on.

  Gabby tuts on the other end the line. “Pearl, don’t be so dramatic. My guess is that he’s in London. You wanted to know why he was sneaking around, getting torn up; well, I found something from the encrypted files you sent me from his laptop. You should be receiving a package.”

  At the mention of the word package I take a breath and hold it for a few seconds before releasing it. “Did you find the envelope that he had your men steal from Sully?”

  “Nothing. I searched the lake house and it wasn’t there,” she says.

  Wherever Seth is keeping my daughter’s birth fake certificate, it’s not there. I know he has it, because Gabby was the one who swiped the documents from Sully’s office for Seth in the first place. After she told me, I freaked out and had to speak to Seth. Only, he’s been avoiding my calls and ignoring my messages all winter. Now he’s disappeared, the urge to find him has intensified to the extent I can’t eat or sleep. There’s a sick churning in my stomach and a restlessness in my soul.

  I need to find Seth.

  Though, I’ve no idea what I would say to him. Even if he’s seen it, he still won’t guess that Sophia is his daughter. The fake birth date on the certificate makes sure of that. I’ll have to consider if I’ll even come clean and tell him the truth. Do I even want him to know or will that just complicate everything all over again?

  Baby steps, Pearl.

  First find Seth. Then, work out what you’re going to say.

  “Do you remember I asked you to swipe Seth’s keys to Heartbreaker?” It’s not lost on me that Seth has renamed my parents’ yacht after my dreadful nickname. Although, why he’s had the thing pulled out of storage and transported all the way to bloody Italy, I’ll never know.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Do you have them?”

  “I do. Pearl, what are you thinking?”

  “If he’s not around and the yacht is just sitting there…” I trail off, letting my unspoken request sink in.

  There’s a pause. “No, no, no. If he catches me—”

  “You’re already spying on him, what’s a little B&E. Haven’t you done it before?”

  “Of course not, I have people for that,” she snaps down the line.

  I arch a brow that she can’t see, breathing out warm air that mists as soon as it leaves my mouth. “Then use them.”

  “They’re in London or Sicily,” she hisses. “I can’t just call up Alberto and tell him I need him to get his behind to Switzerland. He’ll laugh in my face.”

  “Gabby, do I need to remind you that you owe me? Can’t you just make something up? Alberto fancies the pants off you. If you snap your fingers and flutter those pretty, little lashes I’m sure he’ll come for you.”

  I can almost see her in my mind’s eye pouting down the phone at me. “I can’t. He won’t like it.”

  I start to ask who He is, but stop. It doesn’t take a lot to figure out who she means. I’m beginning to wonder if her fiancé is more of a bullet to be dodged than anything else. If that’s the case we’re going to have to sort that out some point. I can’t have some asshole treating Gabby like he owns her. No one owns Gabby. She’s the type of person who owns others and has them begging to keep it that way.

  “Fine, fine,” I say, sighing. I’m going to have to do it myself.

  “Is Marcel still sending you dead things?” She comes right out with it.

  “Birds. He’s sending me dead birds,” I say, correcting her. “I got one today.”

  “I told Seth—” She inhales sharply. “Cazzo di merda, he should have called you back.”

  “Well, he bloody didn’t and now he’s gone walkabout.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes while I let all the stress dissolve away, or try to. Why is life so bloody hard sometimes?

  “Pearl?”

  “Is Flick okay?” I say, quickly changing topic.

  At the mention of Flick, Gabby snorts. “She’s walking all over the doormat that is Hugo, but what’s new?”

  “She’s missing Charli
e,” I say, a slight smile tugging my lips at the thought.

  “She missing a good spanking, that’s what.” Gabby. It would definitely be Gabby if I ever decided to swear off men.

  The cold tiles are starting to leech the heat from the soles of my feet, even though I’m wearing socks. I should go back inside. “Right, I need to go. Call me as soon as you find Seth.”

  She snorts. “Oh, I will. As soon as I find that shitty stepbrother of yours, I’m taking you to him. You need to sort this out. This is his mess. He needs to be the one to clean it.”

  Neither of us say goodbye. I click the phone off and head back into the kitchen, enjoying the warmth from the stove on my cool skin as I close the door to the sunroom. Sophia and Eleanor have already disappeared upstairs, leaving Grams with me, stirring her morning tea and engrossed in her pink newspaper.

  Grams gives me a careful look over the top of her pages. “There’s a parcel for you on the table.”

  Another one? My gaze flicks to the side counter, to the small padded envelope resting there.

  “Anyone one we know?” Grams asks as I cross the kitchen quickly to retrieve it.

  The parcel is thin and flat between my fingers as I pick it up. The hammering in my chest subsides when I see the shape and recognize the handwriting scrawled on the front.