4. Callum

The wayshe moves through the crowd without a care is like liquid. She is fluid, graceful, and dodges everyone. I watch her from a distance, intrigued by this slightly older woman, who, I happen to know, is almost exactly one year older than Quentin and me. Every step she takes is exactly where she means to be. Her hair catches the sunlight, a cascade of dark waves falling over her shoulders. She's not trying to turn heads, but it happens anyway.

She is oblivious to the younger guys drooling all over her and the post-grad assholes trying to engage her in meaningful conversation.

I lean against the cool stone of an old, ivy-covered building, keeping my eyes on her. The air is thick with the buzz of students darting between classes, their laughter and chatter a constant hum, but I tune it all out. It's just background noise. My focus is on Vogue, the girl who loves to snoop but doesn't realise she has walked into the wrong crowd.

Pulling the baseball cap further down my forehead, I push off from the wall and start walking, keeping a safe distance. I'm good at this part, blending in when I want to. You wouldn't think someone like me, with the weight of my family's name on my shoulders, could disappear into a crowd, but I've learned how. It's necessary for survival in my world, and survival is something I'm damn good at.

My steps are quiet, almost silent, even with the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot. There's a thrill in the hunt, in the careful observation before making your move. I know this woman more than she thinks, but I need to know her routine, her hopes and dreams, what she eats for breakfast, what she sounds like when she comes all over a guy's dick. These are all things I have to know about her.

She pauses outside a building, tilting her head back to soak in the sun. There's a look on her face, peaceful, like she's momentarily forgotten whatever worries might be clawing at the back of her mind. I wonder what she's thinking about, and I hope it will be me. Crashing into her before was no accident. Merely an introduction Callum Wakefield style.

She's moving again, and I follow. There's a rhythm to it, an ebb and flow as I keep pace with her strides. She's oblivious to the shadow trailing her, to the eyes that watch her every move, to the fact that her life's about to take a turn into a world so dark it might just swallow her whole.

But that's for later, for when the time is right. For now, I'm content to watch and wait because patience is something I have in spades. When I finally make my move, when I step out of the shadows and into her line of sight, where she can't avoid me, it won't be a moment too soon or too late. It'll be perfect, just like she is in this fractured light, just like the tangled future I see us weaving together—one where she stands by our side and we rule the darkness, unapologetic and untamed.

I'm fascinated with her curves and with the way she moves her body. While the Crestmont elite glide through their days with practiced grace and silver spoons lodged firmly in their mouths, Vogue moves like she's got somewhere to be, like time is a luxury she can't afford to waste. Her clothes are simple, clean lines, nothing flashy—practicality over fashion, function over form.

I linger at the edge of the quad, veiled by a group of students laughing about some weekend party. They're decked out in brands that scream money, their laughter too loud, too forced. But not Vogue. She has quiet confidence, like she doesn't need anyone's approval. I can tell from the way she holds herself—chin up, shoulders back—that she's fought for every scrap she's ever gotten. It's in the measured pace of her walk, the absence of hesitation in her step. There's strength and resilience.

She's a fighter.

But that's not surprising, knowing what I know.

As Vogue weaves through clusters of students, I know she is just like me. Steel beneath that calm surface, fire in your belly, the kind that burns you up inside until all that's left is determination and grit. I see it. It's what sets her apart from these pampered peacocks preening around us.

She hooks me, reels me in. The more I watch her, the more I realise she's exactly the kind of challenge I've been waiting for and hoped she would be. I'm already thinking about the ways I could unravel her, expose those hidden depths, and claim her body and soul.

"It won't be long now, Vogue. Soon, you'll know I've been here all along, watching, waiting, and when I finally make my move, it's going to change everything. You'll see me not as another entitled Earl but as Callum Wakefield, the man who can give you a taste of the forbidden, a glimpse into a world where danger and desire intertwine so tightly, they're impossible to separate. Once I've got your attention, once you look into my eyes and see the darkness that lurks there, ready to claim you, then we'll really start playing."

"What?"

"Huh?" I look up at Harrison, who has slid into step beside me.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Myself, asshole. So fuck off."

"Ouch, man. Who bit you on the dick?" He follows my gaze and then snorts. "Oh, I see. Vogue Jameson, heir apparent. You getting the lay of the land?"

"Trying to, but you came along and ruined it."

"She's not yours," he says, the tone of his voice leaving no room for doubt about how he feels about this.

"Not just mine, but make no mistake that she is mine," I growl.

He narrows his eyes at me, knowing he struck the don't-fuck-with-me nerve.

The tension between us is ready to snap, like a live wire, sparking with the unspoken knowledge of what we are, of the secrets we keep hidden beneath the fa?ade of privileged university students. Harry's no stranger to the game, to the push of dominance and control. But this isn't about him. It's about Vogue, and in our world, when I set my sights on something, I get it.

"Don't waste resources. You can watch her later." I state and push past him to continue my pursuit, slipping through the stream of students with ease borne out of years of moving unseen when necessary.

I watch as she leaves campus and heads in the direction of the supermarket. I hang back, not going inside, just waiting until she exits and turns towards her flat.

She's unknowingly painting a target on her back with every step she takes towards her destiny—a destiny entangled with mine, ours.

It's not just about sex or power—it's about connection. The desire to see if someone like Vogue can understand the man behind the title, the expectations; if she can look beyond the Earl, beyond the nobility, beyond the mafia prince, and see the raw edges that define Callum Wakefield.

There's something deeply satisfying about watching her like this, oblivious to my gaze. It makes me feel like I'm already a part of her life in some twisted, sick way that will only continue and become deeper, darker and more possessive than she could possibly imagine.