12. Quentin

"Can we come in?"I ask, keeping my voice level.

Vogue chews on her lower lip, mulling it over. She glances up at us through long lashes, then back at the door, like it's a portal to another world she's not sure she wants to enter with us in tow. "Okay," she says finally, and there's a cautious note in her voice that tells me this isn't just a casual visit. "But I need some space to think, alright?"

"Of course," Callum replies, his tone respectful, giving nothing away.

"Thanks," I add, trying to sound reassuring but knowing it's a tall order given what hangs between us as Callum turns to the other guys and tells them to leave us.

She leads us inside and up the short flight of stairs. The click of the lock sounds louder than it should as Vogue opens the door and steps aside to let us pass. The flat greets us with a pleasant scent, the sweet smell of jasmine wafting through the small flat. We step into the space, and I notice how the modest furnishings seem to reflect Vogue—unpretentious, yet with an underlying strength.

Callum closes the door behind us quietly, and we both stand there for a moment, taking in the place she calls home. It's different from the grandeur of the life Callum was born into and miles away from the squalor I crawled out of. But here, in Vogue's space, I feel something like peace, if only for a heartbeat.

"Sit down, please," Vogue says. Her eyes flicker to the couch and then away as if she's not ready to look at us just yet.

Callum nods, his movements measured, and walks over to take a seat. I follow, choosing the wooden chair pulled up to a small round table closest to where Vogue stands by the window. She doesn't sit; instead, she wraps her arms around herself and stares out at the dark sky. The quiet is heavy, filled with things unsaid, with the weight of secrets that sit on my tongue like a poison I need to spit out.

"Vogue," I start, my voice rough with nerves, "there's something I want to tell you." My hands are fists on my knees, my whole body tensed for the fallout. But it's time. It has to be done. I take a deep breath, air filling my lungs like I'm about to dive into icy water, as she turns back to me with a weak smile.

"I can't take much more tonight," she murmurs.

"When we were born," I begin, ignoring her, steady as I can manage, "there was more than just the usual family drama waiting for us. The Forsaken—they snatched me from the hospital as payback for some slight they felt the Syndicate was responsible for."

Vogue's eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. "Who are the Forsaken?" Vogue asks, her voice cutting through the stillness of the room. "That's the second time I've heard you mention them."

"Think of them as wannabe big shots in the criminal world," I explain, keeping it straight, no frills. "They're not the mafia, not really, but they're clawing their way up there. They don't get that it's more than just muscle and scare tactics; you need structure, patience." I pause, feeling the weight of every word. "Patience is one thing they never had, except with this. They played the long game, only they messed with the wrong fuckers. Too little, too late, though."

Vogue nods, taking it all in, and I push on. My chest feels tight as I lay out the past that's always gnawed at my insides.

"Meanwhile, Callum here, he got the other end of the stick. Raised as an Earl, with all the trimmings that come with it. Fancy title, powerful friends." I glance at my brother, who sits quietly, giving me the floor. "But me? I grew up thinking a punch was just another form of communication." My voice is flat, almost detached. It's easier that way—to not let it bleed into the here and now. "But that's life, isn't it? One kid gets the golden ticket, the other gets the boot."

Callum doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. We both know how different our worlds were and now, sitting here with Vogue, those two worlds aren't just colliding—they're merging.

I shuffle my feet as I push on with the story. Vogue's gaze is on mine—clear and sharp, like she's reading every word etched into my soul.

"Growing up," I start, my voice a low rumble in the quiet room, "you figure out real fast that life isn't fair. But knowing it and living it? Two different beasts." I watch her face, see the flicker of something—recognition, maybe—in her eyes. "Where Callum had tutors, I had fists. Where he had silk sheets, I had, well, let's just say not silk." It feels like I'm walking through my past with heavy boots, each step kicking up dust I thought I'd buried deep. "Every bruise, every broken bone," my voice cracks just a bit, betraying the calm I'm trying to keep, "made me who I am. Hardened me. Sometimes, I think it's a miracle I'm still here, you know?" I look away for a second, swallowing the lump that's formed in my throat. "Strength isn't about how much you can handle before you break. It's about how much you can handle after you're already broken." My hands twitch at my sides, memories of pain like ghosts on my skin. "And I've been broken plenty."

Vogue doesn't flinch or shy away from the raw edge in my words. She just listens, her presence like an anchor in the chaos of my confession. Her empathy soothes the sting of old wounds as they bleed into the open again.

She moves in the silence, dropping to her knees in front of me. Her fingers brush mine, a whisper of contact which I allow and grip them tightly. Her skin is warm against the cool numbness that's settled over me. I glance down at the small hand offering what words can't—solidarity in the face of my shitstorm.

"Callum got the life that was meant for us both." I pause, feeling the twist in my gut as old resentment simmers beneath the surface. "I spent years in the dark about him, about who I really was."

Her touch doesn't waver, and it's grounding, keeps me tethered when I feel like I might just float away on this sea of past hurts. "And now?" she asks, voice soft but hitting hard.

"Now," I confess, "I'm torn between hating him for the life he led and wanting to know him, the brother I was supposed to grow up with." My eyes meet hers, ignoring Callum completely. He knows I have to do this. It's the only way to get her to trust us, to open up to us by opening up to her. Mine is the saddest story ever to be told, so this fuckfest has landed on me. "Part of me can't let go of the past, can't forgive the universe—or him—for the messed-up hand I was dealt." My throat tightens, but I force the truth out. "Yet here I am, pulled toward him, towards the family tie that's as much a part of me as the scars I carry."

Her grip tightens fractionally, and I realise Vogue gets it, understands the war inside me without needing to live it. That's rare. That's something.

There's something in her look that stops the cold shiver of my past right in its tracks. "Quentin," she says, voice steady as a heartbeat, "you're not your history. You're not some shadow cast by old family feuds or the crap hand you were dealt. I see you."

Her words hit different, they settle somewhere deep inside, somewhere still raw and tender. Not a single flicker of pity in those eyes, just straight-up belief, and it builds up something inside me that feels like it's been crumbling for years. Her acceptance wraps around me, a quiet confirmation that maybe I can start to let go of the fury and bitterness that's been eating at me for so long.

"Your strength, the way you've fought through every shitty thing life tossed your way, that's all you. That resilience? It's impressive, Quentin. You are amazing."

Her praise doesn't feel like charity; it feels earned. And hell, it feels good. My chest swells with something warm, something that feels a lot like hope—or is it pride?—as I grasp Vogue isn't just someone I can lean on. She's become part of my foundation, the piece that makes the rest of it all stand a little stronger.

Vogue's the real deal, someone who's had to claw her way out of her own set of troubles but never once let them define her. She's proof that maybe I can do the same.

"How did you end up finding your family?" she asks quietly.

"I heard the assholes who dragged me up talking about it one day about a year ago. How they were ready to send me back in to rip them apart from the inside out. That was their plan, to take me, twist me, brainwash me and send me back to rip them apart. Only they didn't bank on that being the opposite of what I wanted to do."

"Fuck," she breathes and casts her glance to Callum.

He gives her a grim look back but doesn't back away from the force of her stare.

Right then, even though this was meant to be a tactic to get her on our side, I know I've got more than just an ally in this twisted, dangerous world we're navigating. I've got someone who sees the man behind the scars, behind the rage and the pain, and I'll be damned if I don't hold onto that as tight as I can.

Silence wraps around us like a thick blanket, dense with the weight of everything we've laid bare. She lays her head on my lap, and I feel rooted to the spot, but not in the bad way where I need her to move or I'm going to flip out. I never, ever want her to move.

"Thank you," she murmurs, breaking the quiet. "For telling me about your past." Her gaze lifts to meet mine, steady and sure. "You didn't have to, but it helps me understand what drives you."

I nod, acknowledging the truth in her words. "I wanted you to know. You're trying to figure out what to do next, how to deal with the heritage creeping up on you. I get it. It's about survival, isn't it? But more than that, you needed to know who is after you."

She lifts her head, and her lips press into a thin line, eyes darkening with the gravity of decisions that could alter the course of her life. She doesn't need to say anything; I know she's wrestling with a choice no one should have to make—embrace a legacy steeped in blood or risk falling prey to something even more sinister.

"It feels like I'm at a crossroads with no right turn."

"Whatever path you choose," I say, my voice low, "know that we'll be there."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, a ghost of a smile, but there's steel in her eyes—a resolve I've come to admire. Vogue is a fighter, through and through.

She links our fingers together, which sears straight through me. It's a silent acknowledgement of the bond tightening between us, forged in the fires of our shared chaos.

"Quentin," she breathes out, and the sound of my name on her lips feels like a caress. "I don't know what's going to happen, but..." She trails off, her hand retreating as if she's said too much.

"Hey," I coax gently, capturing her hand before she can pull away entirely, "we'll handle whatever comes, okay?" The words are simple, a promise stripped of any pretence.

She nods, and for a moment, we're just two people, connected by a thread of understanding and the unspoken agreement that we're here for each other, come hell or high water.

As the silence settles over us again, it's not suffocating—it's comforting. It's the knowledge that despite the darkness lurking in our corners, we've got this ember of connection, fragile yet fierce, threatening to ignite into something neither of us can control.

Vogue leans into me, her head resting on my lap again as Callum rises quietly and joins us, sinking down next to Vogue and placing his hand over ours, and I let myself savour the closeness. Our lives are a tangled mess, but in this slice of stillness, I feel the edges blur, our complicated existence morphing into something that just might be worth fighting for.

For the first time, as I look into the face just like mine, eyes brimming with emotions I didn't know he had, I give my twin a half smile and forgive him for shit that isn't even his fault.

It brings me a sense of peace, and for that, I will be eternally grateful to Vogue for giving us this. Am I miraculously fixed? Hell, no. I may never be, but I'm stuck back together with old tape that will hold for now.