3. Vogue

Finishingmy second lecture at Crestmont, I cross the campus, and the buzz of students is like static in the air. Books clutched to my chest, I weave through the crowd. That's when I spot them—the guys from last night loitering around an old part of the building that appears to be under construction.

Now that I'm on level ground with him, the leader guy is tall—six-four, maybe—definitely head and shoulders above the rest, a clear beacon of authority. His hair is dark as night, swept back from his forehead, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. There's an edge about him that says he's not just playing at being tough; he's the real deal.

Beside him, his twin, the fighter from yesterday, Quentin, is brooding in the emo sense. He has something to prove, which makes me think he is the younger of the two brothers.

My gaze shifts to the blonde one. He has a smile that disarms you before you even think to put up a fight. It's easy to believe he's your best mate, with that charm that drips off him like honey. But there's a sharpness beneath the friendly exterior—a glint in his eyes that says he knows more than he lets on.

Then there's the one from earlier, his presence fighting for dominance against the older of the twins. He's all shadows and whispers, the kind of guy who doesn't need to say a word to make you feel uneasy. His dark hair and pale face make him attractive but in a bad-boy way that screams ‘run for your life or beware if you don't'.

I keep moving, not wanting to linger and draw attention to myself. These guys are bad news, and I could tell that even if I hadn't seen them beating up poor Jones yesterday. I wonder briefly how he is doing. Before I pass by, I feel a shudder creep down the back of my neck.

I'm trying to mind my own business when the scene shifts. A door cracks open in the old administration building. I hang back, curiosity hooked, as the guys slip inside, followed by a few other students.

Don't do it, Vogue. Turn around and walk away.

But it's too tempting; I follow, treading softly, biting my lip, and practically drooling with the curiosity that won't leave me alone about these guys. There's just something about them that draws your attention even though you should look away.

For a second, I nearly back away but then I remember who I am—a survivor, a fighter. These guys, they don't scare me. I'm intrigued. But more than anything, I'm determined to figure out the rules of their game.

"Listen up," the leader of the guys calls out; I make a mental note to learn his name and the others as well. "If you are here, you are here by invite. That means you don't get to bring a plus one or a plus two. You are flying solo. Anyone talks about this, you will have to deal with the consequences of being snitches."

"That means stitches… if you're lucky," Quentin growls.

I gulp. I wasn't invited, and here I am, the cat whose curiosity is about to get her killed. Or worse.

What is worse than being killed, you asshole?Oh, I'm sure they could think of something.

"That's rule number one," the leader continues. "Rule two. The stakes are high. Ten grand minimum buy-in. If you haven't got that right this second, leave and keep your traps shut."

Ten grand? Fuck. I don't even have ten pounds. Well, I do, but not to spare. Every penny is accounted for.

"Rule three," the blonde one carries on. "This isn't a charity. You're here because you can hold your own. You fuck up; you're on your own. That includes counting cards. If you're caught, you're not going to be doing it again. We clear?"

Counting cards?

It clicks, then. Gambling. A clandestine casino run by these guys who are getting shadier by the second.

"Rule four. Loyalty for the event above all. If one of us falls, we all do. That means protection comes at the price of absolute silence."

I watch them in awe and horror as they nod at each other, a silent agreement passing between them—a bond formed in darkness and sealed with danger.

My brain yells at me to get the fuck out of there before I get caught eavesdropping on something far bigger than I can handle. But my feet won't move; they're rooted to the spot by an invisible force that is just plain old stupidity.

"So, do we have any backing out? Remember, you leave now, you don't get to come back," the leader says.

Some guy at the back shakily raises his hand. "Callum?"

The leader zeroes in on him. Callum. Pretty. Scottish. That's the lilt in his accent, then. Not that discernible, but there if you listen, and apparently, I'm fucking listening. "What?"

"Can I PayPal it to you?"

Callum snickers. "As long as it clears, you can give it to me in gold fucking coins. I don't give a shit."

"Then I'm in," the guy says with a proud beam.

"We'll see," Quentin mutters loud enough for me to hear because I'm snooping around the back of them.

"Deal with Thayer for your buy-ins, and The Crowned Syndicate welcomes you to the underground Crestmont Casino."

The Crowned Syndicate.

Thayer, the dark-haired one I saw talking to the faculty member, steps forward. So, three down, blondie to go.

As they scuffle to get their buy-ins sorted, I take the opportunity to slip back outside into the bright sun, sweating like a whore in church. That was intense.

Scurrying away quickly before anyone sees me lingering, I hurry around the old building and become somewhat of a cropper around the corner.

"Watch where you're going!" The sharp command cuts through the campus noise just as I collide with a solid chest. My books scatter at my feet, pages fluttering like trapped birds.

"Sorry, I—" My apology dies as I lock eyes with Callum. He stands in front of me, all height and dark hair, a statue come to life. His gaze holds mine, and for a second, I'm caught in the space between intimidation and fascination.

"Need a hand?" His voice is smooth, a low rumble that vibrates through me.

"Thanks," I mumble, crouching to gather my scattered thoughts alongside my books. His fingers brush mine as he hands me a textbook, the contact sending an unexpected jolt up my arm.

"Vogue Jameson, post-grad, if my intel is correct." Callum doesn't wait for my nod. He says it like he knew this information before I ever set foot here. "A word of advice, Vogue. Keep what you see to yourself, and you might just enjoy your time at Crestmont."

My mouth goes dry. Does he know I was snooping?

"Is that advice or a threat?" I challenge him, standing to face him squarely because that's who I am. I was raised in a tough neighbourhood. Yes, I know when to ignore shit, back away and keep walking, but I don't back away from direct confrontation if someone gets in my face, and I never let anyone see weakness.

Weakness gets you stabbed where I come from.

His lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. "Just a friendly suggestion."

"Thanks, I'll bear that in mind." My voice is steady, but inside, my pulse races. I slide past him, books clutched to my chest, shaken.

"See you around, Vogue," Callum calls after me, his voice wrapping around my name like a secret I'm not aware of yet.

As I hurry away, his words linger in my head, and I wonder who exactly these four guys are to wield such power over a campus.

I barely catch my breath before I'm weaving through the maze of students in the crowded hallways. Only a few seconds late, I slip into the lecture theatre and into the nearest seat just as the professor poses a controversial question to the class, setting the stage for an intellectual showdown.

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely," Professor Hargrove declares, scanning the sea of faces for a challenge.

"Does it?"

A voice cuts through the still air, and all heads turn, including mine. "Or does it simply reveal the corruption that was always there?"

Quentin rises from his seat, and I blink. This is a post-grad course, so what is he doing in here? I was sure those guys were third-year undergrads, but maybe not. Or maybe he's here on advanced placement?

The professor, a middle-aged man with a reputation for enjoying the sound of his own voice, seems almost pleased by the interruption.

"Explain," he prompts, leaning back against his desk with a smug smile.

"Power doesn't change people," Quentin asserts, his tone even, his gaze implacable. "It strips away the pretence, showing us who they really are. It's not the power that's corrupt—it's the person wielding it."

The room is silent except for the sound of pens scratching notes and keys tapping on laptops, the collective breath of the class held in anticipation. Quentin's eyes scan the audience, challenging us to disagree. But nobody speaks. Not even me, and I'm usually not one to back down from a good debate.

"Interesting perspective, Mr Ravenscroft," the professor allows. "But can you provide examples where power has been used for absolute good?"

Ravenscroft. Fancy.

"Every tool has the potential for creation or destruction," Quentin replies. "It depends on who holds it and what they value. If we only focus on the negative, we fail to see the opportunities for positive change."

I absorb his words, intrigued by his confidence. He's got a point—a dangerous one—but it's delivered with such conviction that I find myself nodding along.

Quentin's eyes meet mine and bore into them, asking questions I don't have the answers to. My gaze drops to the tattoo on the side of his neck. A snake wrapped around a dagger, and I lick my lips. I want to know more—about them, about this dance of power they lead so effortlessly.

The rest of the lecture continues when Quentin takes his seat again, with Hargrove droning on, but my thoughts race, trying to piece together the puzzle that is The Crowned Syndicate. The allure isn't just in their looks or the whispers that follow them like a second shadow—it's the power they wield without even trying, the way they seem to bend the world around them to their will. They're a cocktail of danger and seduction, and it's intoxicating, but it's not just about being drawn to the bad boys; it's about understanding the game they're playing. The business they're running. It's like they're chess masters, and everyone else is playing ludo. In some twisted way, I get it. Growing up where promises were as thin as paper and every day was a hustle, I recognise the look in their eyes. It's survival, ambition, and the desire to rise above your story.

There is no doubt, though, that it's more than that with these four—they're not just surviving; they're thriving, remaking the world in their image. Despite myself, despite everything my mum taught me about staying clear of trouble, I want to know more. To be near that flame, even if it means getting burned because if there's anything I've learned from growing up without a father, it's that knowledge is power. Even if you don't like what you learn, it's better than not knowing anything at all, which is where I stand with the man who abandoned my mum before I was even born, leaving her barely eighteen and in tatters to raise a child she was in no way ready for.

As the lecture ends, the voices around me wash over me, but my thoughts are still with The Crowned Syndicate—picturing how they navigate this world with a grace that's as terrifying as it is alluring because deep down, I'm not just intrigued—I'm hooked, and I sense that this is just the beginning.