Page 1 of The Consequence of You (Heathley Academy #2)

CHAPTER ONE

CALLIE

“ I ’m so sorry, I’m busy on Saturday.” It’s the third time Henry’s asked me out since he started training at my gym, and I’m running out of excuses.

He’s a good-looking guy in his third year of veterinary school.

During our few conversations, he’s made me laugh and we have some similar interests, but I don’t have time to date.

Exam results are out later this week, and I’ve promised to help my best friend, Dahlia, and her boyfriend, Grayson, decorate their new flat after they move in at the weekend.

We start university soon after that and…

okay, I’m making excuses. It’s not about lack of free time at all.

It’s been a few years since I dated anyone and I have no intention of changing that, no matter who’s asking. Saying no to Henry isn’t easy, but it’s infinitely easier than saying yes. He takes my water bottle from me and refills it from the cooler before handing it back .

“Are you free the Saturday after?” He smiles hopefully, but I shake my head apologetically.

His smile falters a little as it finally registers that the scheduling of the date isn’t the problem.

“No worries. If you change your mind, you let me know.” I nod and feel a pang of regret as I watch him refill his bottle and head over to the treadmill in the corner.

I take a long swig of cold water. He is a sweet guy and if I was looking for something, Henry would be it.

I wish things were different, but they’re not.

I swallow a few more mouthfuls of water and take up a spot on the rowing machine next to Dahlia. She removes her headphones off and turns to me.

“So?”

“I said no.”

“He cornered me earlier and asked me what your favourite restaurant was.”

“Don’t. I feel bad enough as it is.” Biting my lip, I feel Dahlia’s gaze on the side of my face. “I’m not interested in him.” I start rowing, and after a few seconds, Dahlia starts again next to me.

Maybe a different friend would have told me to give him a chance, pushed me to say yes.

But that’s not Dahlia. Instead, she quietly matches my pace on the exercise machines, staying alongside me as I pull and push until sweat beads on my forehead and drips between my shoulder blades.

As though working harder will somehow erase my past.

My early morning gym session was supposed to set me up for the day, but all it’s done is leave me feeling restless.

There’s nothing new about Henry asking me out, and he took it well enough when I said no.

My best friend didn’t push me on it. I don’t want to date him, but it’s an unwelcome reminder of why I don’t.

I throw my gym stuff into the washing machine and switch it on before heading to the kitchen.

Rossi, my family’s head of security and personal bodyguard, sits at the table with a newspaper and a mug of black coffee. He looks up as I enter the room.

“Good workout?”

“Yes, we did an hour in the gym and a Pilates session.”

“Ready to take on the world then, Miss Callie?”

“Something like that.” I offer him a small smile, pour myself a glass of juice, and help myself to the arts section of his paper.

I flick through it quietly, not actually reading it, but not wanting to make small talk.

Rossi finishes his crossword and gets up to fix us both an omelette.

Cooking for me isn’t in his job description, but it’s a habit we’ve got into over the last few years.

One or the other of us will make breakfast, and we’ll frequently eat together in the evenings.

Gabriele Rossi is in his late twenties, and he’s worked for my family for years.

Our family has always had a security team, but after my mother died four years ago, my father made Rossi my dedicated guard.

He doesn’t come everywhere with me but lives at the house and accompanies me if I go anywhere alone.

I’ll be starting Heathley University in a couple of weeks, and it’s part of the same prestigious private campus as Heathley Academy, which I graduated from earlier in the summer.

The campus is on private grounds with top-end security measures, because some of the richest families in the country send their young people there to be educated.

It all feels unnecessary and over the top, but it means that Rossi doesn’t have to be at my side twenty-four hours a day, even if he is always on call.

If the demanding hours bother him or interfere with his personal life, he never complains. He’s a consummate professional but also feels a little like family. An older brother almost, especially as he’s the person I spend the most time with at home.

We moved to England ten years ago from Sicily.

While my parents were proud of our Italian heritage, they wanted something different for us than the upbringing they’d had.

My mother was a stay-at-home parent, while my father continued to run his business back home, at the same time as extending his portfolio in this country.

These days, my father spends the vast majority of his time in Sicily working, and even when he is in England, he’s busy, so I rarely see him.

My older brother, Luca, has been over in Sicily for the last few years, having moved back there not long after our mother died.

We fall into an easy silence as Rossi chops a red pepper and a couple of spring onions. He cracks a few eggs into a bowl and whisks them briskly, whistling ‘Cruel Summer’ as he works.

“Didn’t peg you as a Swifty, Rossi.”

“Isn’t everyone a Taylor fan?” he retorts, not phased in the slightest at my teasing.

I laugh. He’s not wrong.

I hum along with him until we’re both melodising between us. Grabbing the cutlery as he plates up, we spend the next half an hour arguing over which of her albums is her best work, all thoughts of dating out of my mind again .

ASHER

Seven hundred pounds. Not bad for a twenty-minute race.

I throw the wad of cash in the glove box and peel out of the car park.

It’s not about the money for me; it’s the thrill of the challenge.

I’m used to solving problems, whether it’s complex math equations for my course or figuring out the right words to charm two women I just met at a nightclub into my bed that night.

Both are challenging in their own way, but winning an illegal street race is all about trusting your instincts.

It's about holding your nerve and following your gut. The excitement of not knowing what’s around the next bend, or if my competitor is more skilled than me, is exhilarating.

The rush of crossing the finishing line first is unrivalled.

I check no one’s following me and turn onto the narrow road leading to the double garage I rent.

After I pull in, I tear off my black, stretchy ski mask and shove it in the glove box, retrieving my cash at the same time.

I unlock the small floor safe in the corner and add my latest winnings to my growing pile of money.

After covering the car with a dust sheet, I climb into my other vehicle.

This one is worth ten times the value of the car I race in, but it’s too recognisable.

I can’t have anyone know who I am. Personally, I couldn’t care less if my identity were to be revealed, but my parents would force me to stop racing.

It’d cause a scandal they’d immediately try to cover up.

For that reason alone, I always race anonymously under the moniker Arsonist .

The crowd chose it, not me. My first car had red and orange flames painted on the sides.

It’s laughable, really. They were already on there when I bought the thing, and I never got around to painting over them.

Race six or seven, I totalled the car, but by then, the nickname had stuck.

My current ride is a plain black, standard model Subaru with nothing special about it.

I frequently swap to a different car, which means the wins belong to me and me alone.

The plates are fake, and I always pay cash.

In this world, cash is king, and if you flash enough of it, you can have whatever you want.

It’s sickening really, but it is what it is.

Even the initial buy-in, the one I paid a couple of years back, was hefty.

It’s set so high, only those able to lay their hands on substantial cash can enter.

But that was then, and I’ve recouped that amount fifty times over. I draw in a big crowd when I race. They come to see me eliminate my competition each week. It doesn’t faze me. I want to be challenged. I need it. I fucking thrive off it. It’s addictive.

At least that’s how it was initially. It’s become so rare for me to lose a race these days; it means the high isn’t what it used to be.

In the beginning, I’d go into the race not knowing if I’d make a bad turn or meet my match.

I’d wonder if my car would go up in a ball of flames, and I’d earn my nickname.

But despite my best efforts, it’s all too predictable now, just like the rest of my mundane existence.

I sigh. So much for feeling better after I race.

It takes less than half an hour to get back to my house, a huge stately home on the outskirts of Sussex.

It’s been in the family for hundreds of years.

Passed down through the generations to the eldest child.

Eventually, my younger sister Aurelia will marry and be gifted one of the large cottages on the grounds, and I’ll move into another.

Our elder brother, Sebastian, will inherit the Dukedom, the estate and everything that goes with it because he’s the firstborn.

I sound bitter. I’m not. There can’t be much worse than the noose he has hanging around his neck.

I’m just the younger brother, with all the same expectations to behave and live up to our family name, but none of the actual recognition.

It fucking sucks for him and it sucks almost as much for me.

Once my parents had Sebastian, they had a second child hoping for a girl, but they had to try one more time before they got Aurelia, so when I say I serve no purpose as far as they’re concerned, I mean it.

Our family name and our family tree are the reason we have no autonomy over our lives.

At the last count, Sebastian was 37 th in line to the throne.

In years gone by, maybe we could have lived a normal life, but the way social media is these days, journalists are hungry for any morsel of gossip, even regarding the most tenuous of ‘celebrities’, so it means we live in the public eye.

Our every action documented. And while I don’t give a flying fuck, my parents do.

The pair of them are obsessed with our public image. Growing up, I tested the boundaries at every opportunity. I messed up repeatedly, watching as they covered up my misdemeanours, paying off journalists and neighbours. Even the fucking staff on occasion.

It didn’t take me long to work out that it wouldn’t make much difference what I did; they had enough money and connections to make it go away.

For a while, testing that theory was fun.

But eventually, I grew bored with it. There are only so many hotel rooms you can smash up, politician’s daughters you can be caught skinny dipping with, and socialite charity dos you can turn up inebriated to.

I was dragged out of nightclubs, thrown out of restaurants, even sent to a European boarding school to ‘consider my behaviour’ for a year at one point.

Growing up, I had no idea what I wanted my future to look like, but I knew I didn’t want it to look like my parents’. And yet, inevitably, my life will only be one thing; a watered-down version of theirs.

As I pull into the drive, one of our staff, George, approaches the car. I lower the window.

“Sir, I can park the car for you.”

“It’s okay George, I’ll do it.” He nods and steps away.

I close the window and park in our vast garage.

As I exit the vehicle, my shoulder twinges.

I probably hit a bend too hard tonight. I rub at it as I walk inside the dark house.

It’s late now. Well after midnight, but I’m not tired. I never am after a race.

Heading downstairs into our gym, I run a few laps on the treadmill until my legs ache and my chest burns.

University starts in a few weeks and can’t come soon enough. Education is monotonous, but it quiets my mind when nothing else will.

Exam results are due next week, and I’ll pick them up with the rest of our year group, but I already know I’ve done well.

I had an email from one of the exam boards to say my mark was in the top half per cent of students in the country.

I’ll be getting some kind of award, but really, what’s the point?

It’s not like I can use my qualifications for anything useful.

Lordships aren’t dependent on decent qualifications.

My future was predetermined the moment my father’s sperm reached my mother’s egg. I let out a bitter laugh. Some students would kill for results like mine, top grades that would open up a world of opportunity, but for me, they aren’t worth the paper they’re written on .

Stifling a yawn, I glance at my watch. I promised my best friend, Grayson, I’d help him and his girlfriend, Dahlia, move into their new apartment tomorrow. Which, as of an hour ago, is now today.

I wipe the sweat off the handles of the treadmill and strip before standing for a full three minutes in a freezing cold shower. Redressing in some clean shorts, I head to bed.