13. Vogue

I'm awake again—thethird time tonight. My eyes snap open, and the ceiling fan's monotonous hum fills my ears. I roll over, checking the clock. It's 6 AM. I should be sleeping like the dead, but instead, my brain is in a marathon all about that scholarship funding, of all things.

I sit up and press my palms to my eyes. The darkness behind my eyelids isn't enough to block out the thoughts. Mum said she applied for me and said it was all taken care of. But something doesn't add up. There's a nagging in my gut, a whisper telling me this good fortune is dressed in borrowed clothes.

Glancing around at the empty flat, grateful the twins left me alone some time ago to sort my shit out, I feel a pang for Quentin. What an absolutely awful thing he has been through. Not to mention his family. Callum. The guilt that eats at him is easy to see now, I know. But also, the horror of knowing it could just as easily have been him. There's so much more to that story that I want to know, but I won't press them. They will tell me when or if they want to.

Knowing sleep will not come, I throw the covers off and swing my legs to the side of the bed. The carpet feels rough under my feet—a contrast to the softness of my sheets. I need answers. Now. Staying here, stewing in my own confusion, won't solve a thing.

My determination feels like a fire inside, burning away the tiredness. I've always felt a little uneasy about this scholarship. Post-grad funding is usually in the form of a loan, but whenever I asked Mum, she assured me it was all sorted and that I shouldn't think of it again but now with this mysterious father looming over me, I have to know. Whoever put the money up for this ‘scholarship', I have a right to know.

I grab my jeans from the chair and pull them on. They're worn at the knees, threads threatening to give out. Doesn't matter; they're just a means to an end. Same goes for the plain t-shirt I snatch from the dresser.

I sit on the bed and tie my trainers tight, the loops quick and efficient. I'm all about practicality now in case I'm forced to run for my life again.

The twins made me promise to wait for them to pick me up to head to campus, but this is too big, and I can't wait. The Administration office will have someone milling about around seven o'clock for the early athletics classes which start at 7.30 AM. Making a tea to go, I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder, leaving my flat with only a tiny sliver of thought for my safety.

The hallway outside my flat is silent, save for the occasional creak of ageing floorboards. I close the door softly behind me and creep forward.

The cold morning air hits me with a chill when I step outside, but it's not enough to cool the burning need for answers.

As I move across the campus, closer to the Admin building, my pace quickens. Curiosity mixes with the tension, churning in my gut. I rehearse the questions I'll ask, the firm tone I'll use to demand transparency. They have to tell me something, right? It's my life they've been dealing with in shadows.

The leaves rustle above me as if sharing whispered secrets of their own, and the crispness of the autumn air fills my lungs. With each breath, the haze of sleeplessness clears a bit more, sharpened by the edge of the cold and the urgency of my mission.

Finally, the Admin office looms ahead, its brick facade more imposing in the early morning light. I take a moment, steeling myself. Whatever lies inside those walls, whatever truths about my funding, I'm ready to face it all—head-on, no flinching. This is about my future, and I won't let anyone control it but me.

A sense of resolve settles over me as I reach for the door, ready to delve into the unknown.

I push at the door, knowing I'm early but it opens so I slip inside.

"Not quite open yet, love," The woman at the desk looks up, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

"I know, I can wait for official hours."

"We're only really supposed to be here for the early birds," she says, giving me a once-over and deciding I'm not about to run track in my jeans and tee.

"I know, but I have some questions. I'll wait."

"What questions?" she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Uhm, I need some information about my funding," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"What kind of information?" she asks with a frown.

"Well, I've lost the paperwork or possibly left it at home like an idiot," I chirp, "and I need to know the next payment. It's completely slipped my mind."

She stares at me for a few seconds and then blinks, tilting her head slightly. "Your name?"

"Vogue Jameson." I watch as she types it into her computer, her fingers tapping away in a staccato rhythm that seems too loud in the quiet office.

"Ah, here we are," she murmurs, peering at the screen. "Well, that's odd."

"What's odd?" My heart starts to race, but I keep my face composed.

"Your entire course has been paid for. Upfront." She squints at the screen, then back at me, her surprise unmistakable, but then she frowns at me as if I should know this. Which I fucking well should.

"Oh?" I murmur. "Was it Megan Jameson? My mum always does crazy things like this," I joke lamely.

She gives me a tight smile. "It says Aaron McGowan. Listed as your father."

My breath catches, and for a second, the room spins. "Damn him," I hiss but then force a smile on my face that matches hers. "Thanks," I manage, my mind racing.

That fucker!

Without another word, I turn and walk out, the door closing softly behind me, my mind a whirling mess. It's like the ground shifts beneath me, and I can't find solid footing.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. The revelation crashes against my pride like waves against a cliff. Betrayal stings sharp as a slap across my face; Mum knew about this all along. She had to have because of the lies she told me. She lied to me.

"Vogue!" someone calls from behind, but I don't stop.

"Hey, Vogue, wait up!"

I ignore the voices of the twins and keep going. My footsteps pound a rapid tattoo on the quag, echoing the frantic beat of my heart.

Lies. All lies, all my life. Lies. Lies. Lies.

Callum catches up with me and grabs my arm to pull me to a stop. I yank it back, glaring at him in fury. Quentin pulls up beside him, and I include him in my glaring.

"You were meant to wait for us," Callum accuses.

"Fuck you," I snarl and turn to run, but Quentin is quicker, grabbing my arm and not letting go.

"What is it?" he asks quietly.

"More fucking lies. My funding for this course, it's from him." The words are acidic, burning my tongue as they spill out.

Callum's expression shifts, a shadow passing over his sharp features. He knows he's cornered, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he calculates his next move. "You know."

"Yeah, I fucking know. I knew all along it didn't add up, but I shoved my head into the sand like a fucking idiot. But yesterday, oooh, yesterday made me see things in a whole different light. The office has just confirmed it. That fucking bastard. Who does he think he is?"

"Your father," Quentin points out, completely unnecessarily.

"No fucking shit, Sherlock. Thanks for that, asshole."

"Hey," he snaps. "Don't shit all over me, I didn't foot the bill."

"Everyone just needs to calm down a sec," Callum says, showing why he's the leader of this little group of gangsters. "Vogue, I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, but of course, he funded you. He funded your undergrad as well. It's all he could do without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for his enemies to find. Not to mention, your mother didn't make it easy for him?—"

"Don't you fucking dare bring my mother into this," I snarl.

He holds his hands up and drops it.

"So now I'm indebted to that fucker anyway. Fuck this shit." I turn to walk away, but they both follow me. "Go away."

"You are not indebted to anyone. Aaron doesn't want you to pay him back. He doesn't even expect you to talk to him. He knows how hurt you are and that you will never forgive him. It's complicated, but?—"

"But what? And stop talking for him. If I want answers, I'll go to him and get them. Right now, I just don't want to hear his name or think about him ever again."

"You're being pig-headed," Quentin says, stopping me dead in my tracks.

"Oh, am I?" I grit out through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, you are. Who gives a fuck who paid the University fees? You're lucky you're here being able to learn and get a degree. Some people don't get that opportunity."

Ouch.

I gulp, knowing he's right. I'm being a whinging bitch, and up to right now, I'd've said I hate whingers. My shoulders slump, and I murmur. "You're right. But the thing that is getting to me is my mum lying to me. I don't give a flying crap about Aaron, but my mum? That stings, you know?"

He gathers me to him, and I stifle my sniffle. "I know," he murmurs into my hair. "I know."

Callum watches us, his hands shoved in his pockets, jaw clenched like it's ready to shatter his teeth. The air between us crackles with tension – one part anger, two parts something else. "We're in this together, Vogue," he says quietly. "All fucked up, all tied to things we can't change."

I pull away from Quentin's embrace and wipe my cheek. "So now what?" I ask, my voice sounding hollow.

"Now," Callum says, stepping closer, "you keep going. You use this opportunity regardless of where it came from. You're here for a reason, Vogue. Not just because of Aaron McGowan or any other shit."

Quentin nods, his eyes serious. "He's right. We've got your back."

Thayer arrives then, as if summoned by the mention of having someone's back. That's how he rolls – smooth and silent like a shadow gliding through life. "I hear you're having a group therapy session without me." His tone is light, but there's no hiding the concern under that smirk.

"The hits just keep on coming," I mutter.

"Well, then," Harrison says, sidling up to the group in time to hear my complaining. Again. He circles an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his side with an easy familiarity that sends a shiver through me despite everything. "Let's get some food in you before you start decking more people with hard truths."

The corner of my mouth twitches up at that. "Food sounds good," I admit and finally remember the to-go tea in my hand. It had been completely forgotten in the news that splintered my world and my belief in the one parent I thought cared.

But I refuse to let this bend me for a second longer. I can cut my nose off to spite my face and leave Crestmont, never to return, or I can take what that asshole gave me and squeeze every last penny out of that funding to make this world my bitch.

Is that acceptance I hear in the morning?

Gritting my teeth against my inner thoughts, I shrug it off. Maybe it is. Who can tell?