Pretty Little Lies

Four years ago, Nicolo Marchetti took my innocence. But he left me with something else—Nicolo almost took everything from me. My virginity, my reputation, and very nearly my future. The heir to a mafia fortune, he’s arrogant, cocky, and devastatingly handsome—and I only just escaped him. But he left me with something that means I can never forget. Now, with the help of my aunt, I’m raising my daughter and pursuing my dream of being a ballerina. All I want is to fulfil my late parents’ wishes and move on with my life—and when I start fresh at Rosehill Academy, I think I’ve accomplished that. Until he appears again. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t know he gave me a child. And once he sees me dance? He’s obsessed. As for me? I’ll do anything to stay out of his clutches—even if my body remembers what happened between us four years ago and still longs for it… despite everything he’s done. His lies may be pretty… but I swear I won’t fall for them twice.

Pretty Little Lies is a STANDALONE bully romance ready to be devoured.

Book 1: Pretty Little Lies (Nicolo and Anya)

Book 2: Pretty Little Toy (Ilya and Whitney)

Book 3: Pretty Little Game (Cassio and Bianka)

Anya

Four Years Later

“Wish me luck on my first day!” I say as I sling my school bag over my shoulder and head toward the door.

“Good luck,” Aunt Patritsiya says with her faint Russian accent, tilting her cheek so I can kiss it as she gives my hand an affectionate squeeze. 

Average height and slightly on the plump side, my aunt is several inches shorter than me, and I have to lean down to accommodate the requested kiss she receives every day before I leave. 

As I pass the kitchen table, I stop to press a kiss to my daughter’s black curls, which never fail to remind me of her father’s. Clara beams up at me with her innocent hazel eyes, her smile both mischievous and winning me over in a paradoxical combination. She knows she’s too cute to get in trouble, and she fully uses that to her advantage.   

“You be good for your auntie today, okay?” I ask, giving Clara a meaningful look.

“Yes, no more coloring on the preschool walls,” Aunt Patritsiya agrees. 

She prefers to go by auntie, though she’s technically Clara’s great-aunt. But she always claims it makes her feel so old. I can’t say I blame her. Seeing as I got pregnant before my seventeenth birthday, Aunt Patritsiya is rather young to be a great-anything at age forty-three. 

“Draw me something on paper today, Clara. That way you can bring it home for me to see,” I suggest as I tickle my little girl’s belly. 

Clara giggles, and she wriggles in her seat. “Yes, Mommy,” she agrees. She turns her attention back to her cereal, which she spoons into her mouth sloppily.  

Full of nervous excitement, I march out the front door of our modest little apartment and race down the three flights of stairs to the streets. It’s a half-hour bus ride from here to the campus of Rosehill College, the private university I’ve always dreamed of attending. Finally, after years of hard work and four semesters of a local community college, I’ve earned a full scholarship to the private university’s elite performing arts program. I still can’t believe they accepted me. 

Loading up onto the city bus, I find a window seat toward the back and watch the streets of Chicago slowly pass by. It’s been a hard road to get here. Between choosing to keep and raise my child, transferring high schools before graduating and moving on to college, and continuing a rigorous level of training to become a ballerina, I feel as though my life has been a never-ending cycle of sleepless nights and long days. And I don’t know what I would do without my aunt to support and guide me through it all. I couldn’t have done it on my own. 

At least now Clara’s old enough that she goes with my aunt to preschool every day. The first few years of her life had been particularly challenging. But I wouldn’t give a second of it up if it meant living without my baby girl. She’s the center of my universe and the light of my life. Even when she’s causing mischief, Clara brightens my day. 

It’s a beautiful August day outside, and the streets are bustling with activity when I exit the bus and step onto Rosehill’s tiny campus for my first day of school. It takes me no time to find the building that houses the majority of my dance classes, the studios where I’ll be undergoing intense training with some of the best professors in Chicago–if not the US. 

The building is made up of beautiful gray stone that forms turrets beneath steeply slanting eaves, giving it an almost castle-like appearance. The archway leading to the main entrance dwarfs me, and my chest swells with pride to know this is where I am attending school. 

My first class is choreography with a focus on ballet, and as I step into the studio, my jaw drops. The mats are already taken by numerous students stretching as they prepare for class to start. Though I’m here ten minutes early, I already feel late. 

Stuffing my bag into one of the cubbies that line the wall, I remove my tennis shoes, replacing them with dance slippers. Then I pad lightly over to the mats to join my fellow students, who stretch as they converse about their summer and all they’ve been up to. 

I choose a spot slightly away from the mix, intensely aware of how out of place I feel. I can see by the make of their clothes that I’m surrounded by students of a completely different economic echelon than I am. They wear nothing but the top brand outfits and dancing apparel, whereas my leggings are starting to look a bit threadbare from the years of use they’ve seen. My dance shoes are looking run-down as well in comparison to the other shoes in this room. But they’re comfortable enough to get the job done. 

“Venice was my favorite,” one girl gushes as she leans into her stretch. “But they have a pasta that absolutely freaked me out. They use squid ink for sauce, so the whole dish is black. Luckily, my parents are fully on board with my trainer’s meal plan, so I couldn’t eat it anyway. No carbs for me.”

“How long were you there?” the tall, dark-haired girl next to her asks. Her pixie cut stands out like a dark halo all around her head, making her look like a fierce fairy. 

“In Venice or Europe?” the first girl asks, pausing in her stretches to pull her bleach-blond hair back into a tight ponytail.

“Both?”

“Well, mostly we spent the summer in my parents’ summer home in Niece. But we did a week in Venice.” 

My attention turns to another set of dancers stretching, as the freckle-faced guy boasts, “Oh yeah, the helicopter was just circling over the volcano. No way could we have touched down. I mean, the lava was spewing!”

“Which island was it?” his friend asks, sounding as awed as I feel at the thought of circling over a volcano.

“The big one. That’s the only active volcano in Hawaii right now.”

From the conversations taking place, I know I’m once again out of my league. Excited descriptions of extravagant vacations and time spent at summer homes in upstate New York make me highly conscious of how I took a summer job teaching ballet to save up enough money to cover Clara’s expenses while I’m in school. It’s somewhat daunting to know I, alone, am here as a benefactor of a generous family donation that funds my scholarship. 

“I’m so excited to be in Professor Moriari’s class this semester,” the dark-haired pixie cut girl says, drawing my attention once more as she mentions our professor’s name.

“I’m a little scared,” the bleach blonde confesses with a shudder. “From his notoriously strict tutelage, I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up in tears at some point.” 

That brings the hint of a smile to my face, though not to laugh at the blonde. I fully understand how a strict professor can be daunting. But I’m with the pixie-cut girl. The more strenuous the challenge, the better. Ballet is what I’m here for, and if Professor Moriari is going to be hard on us, that means it’s an opportunity to grow. 

Still, I feel for the blonde. I’ve seen many a dancer’s dreams crushed under a mentor who pushes them too hard. I hope she can hold up under the pressure, even though I haven’t met her yet. These students may be from a different social class, but they seem just as invested as I am in dance and becoming a performer, and knowing that helps set me at ease. 

Settling in as I stretch, I move through the familiar practice of preparing for dance. I find it nice to simply listen as I relax. My classmates don’t particularly take notice of me, so I have the opportunity to better understand them and ease into the situation. In contrast, it’s apparent to me that the majority of these dancers have spent the last few years of college here, getting to know each other. So, where I’m transferring from a more affordable community college, they have already met, grown familiar with one another, and been a continual part of this program. 

The room goes silent as the studio doors burst open, and an authoritative man in a sharp outfit strides through the door. He moves with the grace of a dancer, and I can only assume he’s Professor Moriari. 

“I expect you all to be fully stretched and prepared at the start of each class,” he states, making his way to the far side of the mirrored room before turning to face his silent audience. “I waste no time with meet-and-greet practices or social interactions. You can manage all of that outside this class. Here, I expect you to be at your best, prepared to perform and learn to your utmost potential. You’re upperclassmen now, and as such, you will be one of the several classes performing in the autumn showcase in a month. I expect each of your performances to properly display your talents as well as prove your potential.”

My pulse quickens at the thought of being asked to dance on stage so shortly after the school year has begun. I know I can. I’ve never faltered in a performance before, but this is my dream to be learning ballet at Rosehill College, and I sense that I’m much more of a little fish in a wide ocean of talent here. I only hope I can live up to the school’s expectations.

“Everyone up. On your feet. I want to see how far you’ve progressed–or backslid–over your summer vacation.” 

Professor Moriari puts us through several grueling exercises, demanding more of each student as he assesses us one by one. I’m used to the pressure, to pushing myself until I’m at my body’s limit, because I know I’m going to have to fight harder for my position than anyone with a family trust fund at their back. I will only succeed as a dancer if I’m willing to go the extra mile, to stand out despite my economic shortcomings. But it was my parents’ dream to see me become a ballerina, to represent our Russian heritage and show my worth to the world. And it’s my dream now. No matter the blood, sweat, and tears, I want to be the best in the world and stand up on stage as a prima ballerina for the ages. 

“Again!” Professor Moriari demands as he paces between our rows, watching our forms and figures as we execute the challenging routine he’s using to assess our skills. 

He pauses beside me, and I have to focus intently forward so as not to falter under his sharp gaze. He’s had something critical to say of everyone he’s stopped for so far, and I steel myself to hear whatever critique he has for me. 

“You’re the new student. Anya Orlov, is it?” he asks, his tone dry.

“Yes, sir,” I respond, trying not to sound too breathless as I continue in my formations at the same time. 

“Very good. You show some promise.” He pauses, as if to assess how I might respond to his praise.

It takes all of my strength not to wobble with the shock of his compliment.

“Keep that curve in your right arm. You’re letting it get flat,” he adds before moving on to his next victim. 

I refocus my attention on my arm’s shape, doing my best to apply his observations.

By the time he’s finished assessing each student and allows us a break, I’m sweating profusely from the workout. This is exactly what I need, someone to push me, to analyze my weaknesses and tell me how I can improve. 

“For the autumn showcase, you will each have a partner. I will assign them since you are limited on time to prepare. You will be in charge of choosing a performance piece that will emphasize both of your strengths. Keep in mind, this first showcase will springboard your following assignment, the winter showcase. Where you will be expected to choreograph your own piece based in the tradition of ballet. I will post a list of partners before tomorrow’s class. I expect you to find your partner and choose a performance on your own time. This class time will be used to practice together. I would highly recommend you spend time practicing outside of class as well.” Professor Moriari pauses to level a sharp gaze at several students in turn, and I’m thankful his eyes don’t land on me following that statement.

Of course, I already plan to practice outside of class, hopefully with a willing partner, but I suspect our professor was picking out the students he believes need the most practice if they are going to meet his standards. 

As my first class of the day comes to a close, I’m aware of just how intense this new program is going to be. It’s far more demanding than the general dance classes I could find at my community college, and even more intense than the program I’ve continued outside of school for years. This is the building block I need to boost me into the big leagues. 

My second class is just as challenging as my first, though this time, the focus is improv and modern dance. By my third class, my arms and legs are starting to feel the strain of continuous training, and my stomach is growling. I can’t wait to get to lunch, and fortunately, I have a break between my third and fourth classes. 

Heading into the main building, where the school cafeteria accommodates the entire student body’s meal needs throughout the day, I pick a food line to collect a grilled chicken spinach salad, packed with nutrients, and a black coffee to get me through my afternoon classes. I can feel the physical exhaustion creeping into my muscles, and hopefully, the boost of caffeine will keep me awake. But I don’t dare add sugar or cream and disrupt my strict dietary regimen that keeps me in dancing shape.

I’m grateful that my scholarship includes a meal plan, which takes the burden off my aunt to pay for quality food and helps provide for Clara. It comes as a relief to know our groceries and my cafeteria meals are covered for as long as I’m at Rosehill. Heading toward the tables, I carry my tray as I make my way through the throng of bodies coming in search of their own lunch. A familiar deep voice catches my ear as I walk, inexplicably lifting the hair on the back of my neck. I think my body’s on overdrive from all the physical exertion, and I try to calm my quickening heart as I continue forward. 

And then he’s right there in front of me.

As a student steps around me, intent on getting to the food line, his lanky form reveals the strong, tall, and stunningly good-looking figure of Nicolo Marchetti. The air leaves my lungs in a gasp as his hazel eyes meet mine, interest sparking there as he looks at me. I freeze, my body going rigid as I come face to face with the man who hurt me so deeply over four years ago.

The father of my child–although he has no idea. I never told Nicolo Marchetti about the two pink lines on the test. He took something from me, but he couldn’t have her. I thought I’d escaped him when I left our high school, and all the confidence goes out of me as I face what feels like a cruel joke. 

As his lips pull up into that charming, cocky smile that reminds me he and his family all but own the city of Chicago, my body goes numb. I barely feel the tray slip from my fingers before it’s hitting the floor.

Hot liquid bursts upward as a combination of lightly dressed salad and coffee sprays up onto both me and Nicolo in an explosion of green and black. The sting of hot coffee splattering across my hands is nothing compared to the look of utter rage that transforms Nicolo’s handsome face. His strong jaw clenches, making the tendons pop dangerously beneath his lightly stubbled face. His nostrils flare as his shoulders tense.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he demands as he flings his hands, sending the liquid and greenery coating them splatting back to the ground. 

My heart comes to a dead standstill in my chest as I realize what I’ve done. But I’m so utterly shocked at seeing Nicolo standing before me that I can’t seem to formulate a complete thought, let alone words. The man who took my virginity, the father of my daughter, and the man who made my life hell. I haven’t seen him since the end of my sophomore year of high school, and I had been so thankful to be away from him then. I’ve spent every day since trying not to think of him. But with a living reminder of him in the form of my daughter, it’s been hard. 

And now, he’s here in front of me, at the school I’ve always dreamed of attending, looking like he’s two seconds from slapping me.