11. Vogue

Back and forth,back and forth, I walk the length of the hotel room. The thick carpet muffles my steps, but it can't silence the chaos in my head. The Crowned Syndicate, the name I've only just learned, belongs to my father—a man I never knew—who has had eyes on me for who knows how long. How could he watch me struggle and grow up with nothing when he sits on a throne of power and money?

That's the worst part of this. I don't care who he is or what he's done because I don't give a shit about him, but if he knew all along how mum and I were struggling and did nothing? That fucks me off more than anything.

Callum approaches me, cutting off my next lap across the room. His gaze is sharp as if he's trying to pin me down and make me listen. "Vogue," he starts, his voice steady and sure, "I know this is a lot to take in. But you're not alone anymore."

"Alone? That's rich coming from you." My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to, but I can't help it. "You drop this bomb on me and expect what? That I'll just accept it?"

He doesn't flinch at my tone. "We can protect you. You have a right to your heritage, and we can keep you safe from the others that would see us fall, that would see you fall."

Protection and heritage. Those words feel foreign, distant. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. "And why should I believe you, Callum? Why should I believe that any of you give a damn? You don't even know me."

"Because it's the truth," he says, and there's something in his voice, a sincerity that makes me pause. "You're one of us now, whether you want it or not."

Biting my lip, I sit heavily on the couch. Callum's words hang in the air like a heavy fog I can't see through. Protection? Heritage? They're just pretty cover-ups for danger and a life of crime. I stare at him, sceptical.

"Can I really trust you, Callum?" My voice is raw, scraping out the uncertainty that tightens my chest. "Can I trust any of this Syndicate stuff?"

He doesn't blink, doesn't look away. "Yes," he says simply. But it's not enough. It can't be that simple, can it?

Quentin steps into my line of sight with a look in his eyes that makes me believe he means every word he's about to say. "You don't need to accept your father into your life, Vogue." His hand reaches out but stops short of touching me, respecting my space, or maybe respecting his own. He is a closed-off sort, and it makes me curious, but not enough right now to push aside the fact that they're all in this shitshow up to their necks. "But you do need to accept that you're in danger and need protection."

"Fuck off," I grit out. "I was doing just fine until I came here. This was supposed to be my way out of the life I was born into. Instead, it's dragging me into a nightmare!"

Thayer steps closer, his shadow falling over the plush carpet. "This was the life we were born into, and it isn't going anywhere." His voice is low, a rumble of thunder on a clear day.

"Can't you get out? Run?" I shoot back, arms crossed, bracing for the answer.

"Not a chance. Even if we wanted to, which we don't, you have to understand this isn't a choice. It's inevitable." Harrison cuts in from behind Thayer, his tone steady. "It's about survival. About sticking with those who have your back."

"Inevitable. I hate that fucking word. Only death is inevitable."

But deep down, something strikes a chord. Survival I understand. It's what I've done all my life—just never like this, never with the stakes so high.

"Look at us, Vogue." Thayer gestures to the four of them. "We're more than some crime syndicate; we're a family of our own making, and we protect what is ours. You are ours."

"Yours?"

But that's not even the word that hits me the most. Family. A word that means everything and nothing to me. My mum is my family, but she's miles away now, and the father I've never known? He's just a ghost, a whisper of a legacy I'm scared to claim.

And there it is.

The big revelation. I'm scared. In shock and scared.

"Family doesn't leave you to suffer."

"Sometimes, family is the only thing that keeps you alive," Harrison replies gently.

Staring into his forest-green eyes, I see something lurking in the depths. Something I can latch onto and relate to, even though I don't really know what it is.

"We are not the same," I murmur.

"We are, you just don't know it yet."

Our gaze deepens, and the flashes of lust I see do nothing to swing me in their direction. They all lied to me. Okay, admittedly, I've known them for the space of a day tops, so really, they don't owe me anything, and it sounds like they've taken a leap trusting me with this now. So maybe they get points for that, but still. All this time, and I was wandering around in the dark in danger because of a man I hate.

Hate.

I've never really placed an emotion that wasn't indifference onto him before. Why bother? He wasn't there from the start, so fuck him. Some days I thought of him and how things might be different, but most days, we got on with shit.

We survived.

I search their faces and see the resolve etched into their features. They're ready to step into a fire for one another, and it rattles me because I realise they'd do the same for me. That they have already by bringing me with them here. Me, the target of this horrible day. It has to be. Callum wouldn't have come clean if he didn't think it was me they were after. Quentin is a decoy.

Accepting their offer for protection feels like jumping off a cliff blindfolded. But refusing? That leaves me exposed, vulnerable to any rival looking to score points against The Crowned Syndicate, against my father.

"Listen," Quentin says, sitting next to me. "We can't promise a rose garden. But we'll stand by you through every thorn and weed."

"Protection has a price," I mutter under my breath. But can I afford not to pay it? Or will I end up like poor Jones? Beaten and bloodied because I couldn't pay.

"Everything has a price," Callum says as if he's read my thoughts. "Question is, what are you willing to pay for peace of mind?"

"I don't have any money. You should know this, seeing as you know so much about me."

"What's money got to do with anything?" Harrison asks with a frown. He sits on the coffee table in front of me and gives me that stare that seems to touch my soul.

"I can't pay you to protect me, and I don't want to end up like Jones!" I blurt out, standing up and realising my pussy is directly in line with Harrison's face, so I sit again, blushing furiously.

"Jones?" Callum exclaims. "Jones?"

"The guy you beat up outside my flat! You've forgotten him already?"

"Oh, him," Callum snorts. "Jones is a cock, and there's nothing poor about him. He pays for our protection because Dunsany is after him. We are the only ones Dunsany are scared enough of to keep their distance. That goes deeper than him not paying and us beating him up."

"Well, not really," Thayer mutters, to which Callum shoots him a vicious glare.

"Still! I have no money to pay you to protect me, so you can stop with the hard sell or the soft one. We're done here. I'm on my own."

"No one is asking you to pay us," Callum huffs out. "Your father and mine go way back. Like all the way back. Had your father not been head of the Syndicate, we probably would've grown up together. I know him as well as I know my own dad, and let me tell you, he is not the asshole you think he is. Well, okay, he is an asshole, but there are things... Fuck!" He spins suddenly and slams his fist onto the dining table, making me jump a mile and clutch my hands to my chest. He visibly calms himself and turns back to me with a tight smile. "Vogue. What I told you today was not how this was supposed to go down. I made a choice to enlighten you and will pay for that. This is your legacy, you are one of us. We don't expect nor need you to pay us to protect you. We will do that anyway because that is what we do."

Staring into his eyes, so deep I could drown, I sigh. This goes so much deeper than I think, but that's the problem, I can't think right now. All I know is accepting their offer is a pact with devils I know versus those I don't.

"Okay," I say, not committing, just acknowledging. It's all I can manage when my head is swimming in a sea of maybes and what-ifs.

"Okay?" Thayer asks with a frown.

"Look, I can't do this right now. I need air, space to think." The room shrinks with every breath I take; each second ticking by is a vice tightening around my chest. "I need time. This is too much, too fast. Please, just take me back to my flat." It's the only place that feels mine, the only ground I can be sure of.

Callum's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek; he doesn't like this, not one bit. But he nods, terse and curt. Thayer stands frozen, an unreadable look passing over his features. Harrison's eyes are hard to look away from. It's like they're hypnotising me, but I force my gaze away to Quentin, silent, just watching me, his expression indistinct.

"Let's go," Callum says eventually.

We exit the luxury hotel room that suddenly feels more like a plush prison cell. The hallway is empty as we move towards the elevator. Once inside, no one speaks, the silence heavy as lead.

The black SUV waits for us outside, and Harrison slides into the driver's seat while the rest of us pile in. My hands clasp together in my lap on top of my backpack, knuckles white, as I stare out at nothing in particular, trying to make sense of the nonsensical.

As the city passes by in a blur, I let my mind wander over the events that have led me here. A girl from Westfield, now caught up in a world where blood and loyalty write the rules. It's ironic, really. All those years clawing my way out of one pit just to trip and fall into another.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Harrison drives with purpose, the streets of Crestmont becoming increasingly familiar as we near the campus. No words are exchanged; we all seem lost in our own reflections.

Finally, the SUV pulls up outside my building, the structure a stark reminder of the life I was living just hours ago. It's modest, unassuming, a world away from the luxury of the hotel room or the dark promises of The Crowned Syndicate.

The campus looms ahead in the dark night, a silent sprawl of brick and shadow. I adore the old buildings and gothic spires, but tonight, it almost feels hostile. After what went down, the streets should be crawling with cops, yet they're empty, abandoned.

"Where are the police?" My voice is flat, my throat tight.

Quentin glances at me. "Perhaps they have more pressing matters," he suggests, but the look he shares with Callum tells me there's more to the story. Much more.

My pulse quickens, not just from fear but from something else, too—a rush that borders on terrifying thrill. Could The Crowned Syndicate really sway police involvement? Do they wield their influence like some dark cloak, shrouding us from the law's prying eyes?

I shake the thought away. It's too much. Too big.

Silence swallows us whole as we climb out.

"Vogue," Quentin says as he and Callum fall into step beside me, all hard edges and coiled strength. "Can we come up? Make sure everything's okay?"

I stare at the door to my flat, then back at them. They stand shoulder to shoulder, a united front against whatever might be waiting for me inside—or out here in the night. But am I ready to let them in? To let them wrap me up in their world of shadows and promises?