6. Vogue

As Thayerand I step into the penthouse, the air feels heavy, like walking into a room where a fight's just paused. I know that feeling too well. We're quiet as we close the door behind us, our shoes soundless on the polished floor.

"Something's off," I whisper, but Thayer doesn't need to say anything; his hand tightens around mine, a silent acknowledgement.

Lounging in the living room with ease that irritates me, Aaron McGowan, with shadows clinging to him like old friends, looks over at us, his eyes piercing through, locked onto us with a sharpness that cuts across the space between us. The rest of the guys are there, silent and pissed off.

I don't blame them.

"Vogue," he starts, no greeting, no-nonsense. His voice is low, almost respectful, which is more unnerving than any shout could be.

My life at Crestmont seems miles away, even though it's only been hours since I was on campus, lost in a world of academia so different from this one.

Thayer's grip on my hand is my anchor, reminding me where I stand and who stands with me without saying a word. He's here; I'm not alone, but this isn't his fight. It's mine—always has been.

"Let's talk," Aaron says, and there's an edge to his invitation. It's not a request. It's a command from a man used to giving orders, not taking them.

Callum, Quentin and Harry, follow Thayer out of the room, leaving me and dear old dad to stare at each other. He is here for a reason, and I'm betting it's about the guy whose grave we left the others to dig.

I feel guilty that we left them, but the shock was pushing me to do something wild, fierce, what Thayer promised me, and it didn't disappoint.

Aaron rises and strides across the room and pours two glasses of scotch from the side table, his back to me. The clink of the bottle against the glass is sharp in the heavy silence. He turns, offering one to me with an expectant lift of his brow. I shake my head. Not after last time.

"Sit," he says, gesturing toward the plush leather couch.

Doing as he says, I plant my ass down as Aaron settles into the armchair opposite, legs crossed, drink in hand, the epitome of casual power.

"Vogue," he starts, his tone smooth like the whiskey he nurses. "You've proven yourself capable—more than that. You have a gift."

I hold his gaze, wondering what he's getting at this time.

"Your time at Crestmont has served you well, but it's just the beginning. Join me, and I'll show you what real power feels like. The luxury you've never known, the guidance of someone who truly understands your potential."

The offer hangs in the air, gilded and tempting. But I've worked too hard for my independence to give it up so easily.

"Real power?" I echo, scepticism lacing my words. "Or a gilded cage?"

Aaron smiles, but there's no warmth in it. "You think you're free now? With me, you can be so much more."

My heart beats a steady rhythm, betraying none of the confusion that his words stir up. A part of me craves the dark allure of his world, the thrill that comes with danger and control.

"Guidance is just a pretty word for control, isn't it?" I challenge softly.

"The rewards are worth it."

"Do you know what I did tonight? Is that why you're here?"

He pauses, searching my eyes thoroughly. "I do, and partly. This was always the plan, but I want it moved forward. You have shown such promise. You don't need to be here. You could be working with me, climbing the ladder tomorrow."

I listen, every cell in my body on high alert. It would be easy to say yes, to step into the role he's carved out for me since birth. But something holds me back, a whisper of caution that tells me not to trust the man who shares my blood but not my past.

"Think about it," he urges.

I will think about it. I'll mull over every word, every implication, because that's what my life has taught me—to analyse, to question, and above all, to trust myself first.

"Thank you for the offer," I say. "I'll consider it."

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, unimpressed with my stalling. But I'm not a pushover, nor am I weak.

"Good," he says after a beat, standing. "Don't take too long."

He leaves, taking with him the power, luxury, and guidance he offers—temptations wrapped in velvet chains.

But right now, there are no answers—only the weight of a decision that could change everything.

I rise slowly and make my way to my room, the door closing behind me quietly. My mind races, replaying Dad's words like a broken record that won't turn off. Crestmont or Syndicate? Education or silver spoon?

I drop onto the bed, the springs groaning under my weight. I need a minute, just one damn minute, without decisions snapping at my heels.

And it's time I stopped avoiding the one person who I was supposed to be able to trust in this life.

Picking up my phone, I dial Mum.

"This number has been disconnected."

"Huh?" Glaring at the phone, I hang up and try again, this time slower in case I was too quick for the phone to catch up.

"This number has been disconnected."

"What in the hell?" Sitting, I frown. Could she not afford to pay the bill, so they cut her off? Fuck. This is what Dad doesn't get. How could she have supposedly taken all that money when this is our life?

Flopping back, I have no idea how I'm supposed to reach her now. A letter? Rolling my eyes, I figure it's probably quicker for me to take the train back to Westfield to check on her.

I can go tomorrow, maybe. Family first and all that, even if she has lied to me. She deserves her side of the story to be told.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance at it, wondering if it's Mum. It's not. It's an alert for a new message. No name, just a string of numbers that mean nothing to me.

I tap the message open, a frown creasing my forehead. It's a video clip. I press play and then let out a soft groan. It's Thayer and me, wild, reckless, lost in each other in the car park of the bar earlier.

"Jesus," I mutter. "Who in the hell was there that recognised me, for fuck's sake?"

Not that I should be moaning. We were on display for everyone to see, and that's what made it so fucking hot. But it's come back to bite me in the ass pretty fucking quickly.

I watch, unable to look away as the video plays through every heated touch and desperate kiss. Who sent this, and what do they want from me?

The phone vibrates in my hand again, pulling me from the tailspin of thoughts. Another video clip pops up on the same thread. I jab at the screen, every muscle in my body tense as the new video plays.

This one's different. It's me again, but younger, more naive, doing shit I swore was buried deep enough no one would ever find it. The blood drains from my face. My hands shake, the phone almost slipping from my grasp.

"Vogue?"

Harry's voice comes muffled through the door, soft but insistent.

"Yeah," I call out a bit too loudly as I click my phone off and chuck it on the bedside cabinet.

He opens the door and slips inside.

"Hey." I try to keep my voice level, but it isn't easy when I don't know the meaning behind these videos or who sent them.

He closes the distance between us, eyes scanning my face. He gives me that look, like he sees straight through the bullshit, right down to my soul. "You okay?" Concern wrinkles his brow.

"Fine," I lie. "Just, you know…" I shrug.

"Yeah, about that. Do you need to talk about the ‘you know'?" He reaches out, his touch gentle on my arm.

"Not really, I'm fine. For now. If that changes, I'll let you know." The words catch in my throat because, really, I'm not fine, but it's got nothing to do with the traitor from tonight. This is a message, a threat. Someone's playing games, dark ones, and they've just made their first move.

I need to get out of these clothes, the sweat, blood and cum is making me feel uneasy. "I'm going to take a shower," I manage, sidestepping Harry's probing gaze.

"Mind if I join you?" His voice is casual, but there's an intensity in his eyes that tells me he's not just talking about saving water. "You did say later?"

"Okay," I murmur because it's easier than explaining why I want to scrub my skin raw until all traces of this night are gone, and he's right. I did. I don't want to be a tease.

I strip off and turn the taps on hot.

In the steam-filled sanctuary of the bathroom, I let the water scald my skin, hoping it will wash away the dread lodged deep in my gut. Harry steps in naked behind me, and I feel his presence like a shield.

"Tonight was intense. Don't bottle it up," he begins, and I can hear the pride threading through his words.

"I won't." The word feels hollow, bouncing off the tile walls. His hands find my shoulders, steady and strong.

"We heard what your dad offered." He turns me to face him, water cascading down between us, as he neatly changes the topic. "What are you going to do?"

"I can't just abandon my plans, my degree. That was my ticket out, my chance at a different life."

"Vogue, power isn't something to be afraid of. It's something to wield," he says.

"I know." My reply comes soft, drowned out by the pounding water. But inside, my thoughts race – power, luxury, a place in a world I've never wanted but is here, calling to me.

"Let's just forget about all that for now," Harry murmurs, pulling me closer to him. His lips trail down my neck, and I close my eyes and feel.

Harry's fingers glide over my skin, spreading suds in their wake as he cleans me. I lean into his touch, the hot water, a guard around us that lets me pretend we're the only two people in this messed-up world. The steam rises, fogging up the glass and blurring out everything else.

"Relax," he whispers, and I let the tension ebb away under his touches. For a moment, the threat of exposure from that video, from someone who knows too much about the old me, fades.

But it's still there, scratching at the back of my mind—a warning that things could go to hell real fast. I can't let Harry see the fear, can't let him—or anyone—know what I've done. My history is a shadow that follows me, and it's caught up.

Harry's hands are on my hips. There's a heat that tells me he needs this as much as I do. His lips find mine, hungry and urgent, and something inside me snaps.

I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer. The sound of water hitting the tile is drowned out by our quickening breaths. He lifts me up, pressing me against the cold tile and enters me.

A moan escapes me, echoing off the walls. "Fuck." I'm clinging to him, my nails digging into his back.

Every thrust drives the panic further away, replaces it with raw need, with the kind of intensity that makes you forget your own name.

"So tight," Harry groans. "So fucking tight."

I hiss out a breath, focusing only on the feeling, letting everything else fade to black. His hands grip my ass, lifting me onto his cock higher, deeper.

Reaching between us, I rub my clit, chasing the climax that I need to erase the fear, the uncertainty. Harry bites my lower lip gently, a silent promise of something primal. "You're going to come so hard for me," he growls against my skin.

"Yes."

The sounds of our bodies colliding, the slick heat of our skin is maddening. My climax builds from my toes up, and I cry out as my pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing with a raw need that obliterates the rest of the world. Harry's breathing hitches, his thrusts growing erratic until his orgasm crashes into him.

"Fuck, Vogue," he rasps as his cock jerks inside me, unloading his cum to fill me up completely.

For those few minutes, nothing else matters – not the danger lurking on my phone, not the offers of power, not the haunting past. It's just skin on skin, breath on breath, the most honest conversation our bodies could have.

Harry presses his forehead to mine as we come down from the high, panting against each other. "Good?" he asks, voice husky with satisfaction.

"Yeah," I murmur.

"I want more."

"Soon," I promise. "I need to try to sleep after this day."

Reluctantly, he agrees and turns the shower off, helping me out and drying me off. He settles me in bed and kisses me, flicking the light off before he leaves. I stare at the dark ceiling for a few moments before I snatch up my phone and play the last video again, trying to figure out when, where and by whom it was taken. But all it is, is me, topless, my breasts bouncing around with my skirt up my hips, as I service a client so I can pay my landlord and buy food.

"Fuck," I mutter as tears prick my eyes. "Fuck!"