24. Vogue

Proppedup with a mountain of pillows behind me, I watch Callum pace the length of my tiny living room for what feels like the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours. The air is thick with tension and of too many bodies in a confined space. Quen leans against the wall, his eyes scanning everything but settling on nothing, while Harry and Thayer have made themselves at home on the couch, flipping through channels they're not really watching on the old TV.

"Okay, this is ridiculous," Callum blurts out, stopping mid-stride to look at me.

"Tell me about it," I mutter, rubbing my temples. "Feels like we're all stuffed in here like sardines."

"Exactly, which is why..." He hesitates, exchanging a glance with Quen.

"Why what?" My patience is running thin, and my nerves are frayed from the constant lack of personal space since my rescue. They haven't left my side, and their protective presence is both a comfort and a curse. I've barely been able to take a pee without one of them hovering.

"Move in with us." The words hang in the cramped apartment, heavy with implications.

"Into your place?" I raise an eyebrow, sceptical. "And how's that going to be any different?"

"More space," Quen says, getting on board fast, as if this was planned all along, pushing off the wall. "There are five bedrooms in the penthouse. You'll have your own room, privacy when you need it, and all the security you need to stay safe."

"Secured and swanky," Harry pipes up from the couch, his lips twisting into an easy grin.

"Great," I sigh, the word laced with a sarcasm that doesn't quite mask the relief seeping in. "From stifling claustrophobia to luxury lockdown."

"Vogue, it makes sense," Thayer says, his voice softer than the others, which is weird in and of itself. "You know we can't leave you alone?—"

"I know, I know." I cut him off before he can finish that sentence, the memory still raw enough to sting like the cut on my neck and the welts around my wrists. "Fine. Let's do it."

"Really?" There's a collective release of breath, four sets of shoulders dropping in unison.

"Really. But just so we're clear, this isn't permanent. Just until things calm down."

"Understood," Callum nods, though his eyes tell a different story. One that promises they won't let me out of their sight ever again.

"Then it's settled." Quen's smile is almost invisible, but it's there, a silent acknowledgement of a new chapter beginning.

"Settled," I echo, already getting up to pack. It's not like I have much to begin with—just the essentials I've dragged with me from Westfield to here.

As the guys mill around, getting in my way, I drag my suitcase out and start to pull my clothes from the drawers. It's been a week since I unpacked, and now here I am, preparing to move again.

When the suitcase is full, I stuff what's left into my backpack and glance around. "Food."

"On it," Harry says, finding a carrier bag and emptying the fridge and cupboards.

"Never did get back to the shops," I mutter.

"Don't worry about that," Callum murmurs. "We've got you."

I don't argue with him. Not now. I'm tired and irritated, but soon we will have a conversation about me paying my way.

"Ready?" Quen asks, his tone careful, watchful.

"Yeah." It's all I can manage without snapping at them for turning my life upside down—again.

Descending the stairs to the SUV waiting outside feels like stepping into a new reality—one with more corners and edges than I'm used to. Thayer and Harrison come up behind us, laden down with my bags.

"Might as well make this a fivesome," Harrison says.

"Like hell, we are," Callum shoots back, but the fire in his voice doesn't reach his eyes. He knows he doesn't have a choice. Not really.

"Callum," I start, but he waves me off, face set in lines of reluctant acceptance.

"Fine. But we're setting ground rules," he grumbles, and that's that.

We pile into the SUV, and then Callum sets off, driving around campus to the posh side. Trees give way to manicured lawns and buildings that look more like monuments than student housing. I press the side of my face against the cold SUV window, watching students stroll along paths without a clue of the web of power plays they're caught in.

Or maybe they know more than they're letting on.

The vehicle stops, and we spill out onto the curb. The building looms over us, a gorgeous villa-esque type place that makes me smile. Callum leads the way, keycard in hand, and we file into the elevator.

"Top floor," he says, hitting the button with more force than necessary. The doors close us in, and the ascent begins, silent except for the hum of the lift, which only goes up three floors.

Don't let that fool you though, when the doors open again, it's onto a space that could swallow the entire block of flats we've just come from. Callum doesn't pause, heading straight for one of the many doors lining the hallway.

"This one's yours," he says, pushing it open to reveal a room that's anything but humble. A king-size bed sits against one wall, windows stretching from floor to ceiling on the opposite side, offering a view of the campus as though it's laid out just for me.

"Wow," escapes my lips before I can stop it. Callum watches, a shadow of something like pride flickering across his features.

"Settle in. Come and find us when you're ready," he says, then leaves me alone with my bags and a future that's never felt more uncertain.

I zip open my suitcase, the sound grating in the opulent silence of this penthouse bedroom, and once again, I unpack, finding places for my belongings in this gigantic room. The university sprawls in front of me, serene from this distance, but teeming with frayed allegiances and whispered conspiracies.

I overheard them talking while I was trying to sleep last night. The Crowned Syndicate's grip on campus life, once ironclad, is now more like fingers slipping off a ledge—my rescue costing them more than a few bruises and a dented ego. They lost turf and showed a chink in their armour for everyone to see, and here I am, holed up in luxury because of it, mulling over the mess that's got my name scrawled all over it.

I shove a drawer shut, the thud echoing louder than it should. They saved me, and I'm grateful forever, but at what cost? The balance of power at Crestmont is a house of cards on a shaky table, and it feels like my exhale could send the whole thing toppling down.

A shiver trails down my spine as I realise that maybe I'm not the damsel in distress they hauled out of that hellhole—I'm the ace up their sleeve. My dad, the ghost in my life story, is a legacy dipped in shadows and danger. His world is laid bare before me now, and all it takes is one statement to pick up that mantle and fight back.

But with that comes a whole bag of shit that I'm not ready to face.

That is to say, Aaron McGowan.

I can't exactly declare I'm the big I am without him being part of that statement. It is now the only thing holding me back. I don't want to be vulnerable and need protection in the form of four guard dogs with bloody axes and guns every second of every day. I want to walk through campus on a gorgeous autumn day and feel safe. Or as safe as anyone.

Sighing, I hang up the last shirt, the weight of possibility settling on my shoulders. But one thing remains clear. If The Crowned Syndicate is going to claw its way back to the top, it might just need me to lead the charge. It's a warped sort of honour, one that has my stomach twisting in knots, but there is power in my bloodline, power I've been denied and then ignored because I didn't know or wanted nothing to do with it.

But now? Now I wonder if embracing that dark heritage is the key to setting things right—or at least tilting the scales back in our favour.

Our.

The Syndicate's enemies are circling like vultures, and I'm smack in the middle of the crosshairs.

I'm the daughter of The Crowned Syndicate, whether I like it or not, and it's time to act like it.