Chapter 1

Shrugging off the weight of my backpack and placing the small shopping bag onto the kitchen counter as the door clicks shut behind me, I look around the small studio flat that I will now call home for the next two years. The walls are bare, the carpet a faded beige that’s seen better days, but it’s mine, and it’s close to the campus of the prestigious Crestmont University, where I’m studying for my postgraduate degree in Business. Dropping the handle of my heavy suitcase-on-wheels that I’ve just lugged up a flight of stairs, which fits in almost everything I can wear or that I cherish, I huff and look around, ready to make this space work.

“Home sweet home,” I murmur, rolling up my sleeves. Not one to procrastinate, I tie up my dark hair into a messy bun and get to work right away, pulling out my clothes and books, little knick knacks that have sentimental value and find them new homes on shelves and in drawers. Every photo I arrange on the nightstand carves out a piece of comfort in this tiny box of a flat.

When I finish what I can, it feels less like a flat and more like Vogue Jameson’s corner of the world. Smiling, I flop down on the saggy two-seater couch and catch my breath, glancing at the double bed I have yet to tackle. My fresh duvet and pillows are scheduled to arrive anytime now, which was a splurge that was expensive but necessary, but at least I bought a set of covers from home to throw on.

My phone vibrates on the small kitchen counter, slicing through the silence, and I jump up to get it. ‘Mum’ flashes on the screen, and I smile as I swipe to answer.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Vogue, darling. How’s the flat?” Her voice is a warm hug through the speaker.

“Small, but it’s alright. Got everything put away.”

“Good going! Remember, you’ve got strength in you, enough to tackle anything they throw at you.” Her cryptic comment throws me slightly, but I roll with it.

“Thanks, Mum. I won’t forget.” Her sacrifices are etched deep into who I am, and I won’t ever forget that.

“Love you, Vogue. We’ll speak soon.”

“Love you too, Mum.” I hang up and set the phone aside, a renewed sense of purpose pulsing through me.

Deciding to get a jump on tomorrow while I wait for my bedding to arrive, I unpack the shopping bag, pulling out a loaf of bread, cheese, a small carton of milk, two apples, tea, butter, a roll of cheap-ass tin foil and a six-pack of crisps which is all I could carry and will have to see me through until I can get back to the shop tomorrow. Methodically, I assemble a sandwich for tomorrow’s lunch, wrapping it neatly in tin foil and placing it back in the shopping bag with an apple. Then, I stick two pieces of bread in the toaster and put the kettle on for a cuppa.

Every movement is precise, from wiping down the counters to sweeping the floor. There’s a satisfaction in the tidiness, a quiet orderliness that steadies me. Chaos makes my nerves ache in a way that doesn’t just drive me crazy; it literally throws me off balance. Everything has to be lined up, neat and tidy, a process. Everything is a process. This is how I operate—meticulous planning and clear goals. It’s got me this far; it’ll take me further still.

Devouring my toast, having worked up an appetite, there is a loud knock at the door, which hopefully signifies my package, and I open the door to see the delivery driver balancing my new bedding in front of him.

“Thanks!” I say, taking it from him.

“Yeah,” he grunts and takes a picture of it in my arms before he saunters off.

Closing the door, I carefully open and cut the plastic wrapping around the duvet, give it a shake out, and then work on the pillows. Ten minutes later, my bed is set, and I kick off my shoes and flop down, ready to call it a day.

A commotion outside the flat window has me back on my feet and going to investigate what on earth is going on.

“YOU FUCKER!”

The roar is so loud that I hear it through the closed window, which hasn’t been double-glazed and is, in fact, an old sash window that you slide up. However, it reveals a small surprise: a tiny balcony that you can step out onto with a dead plant for decoration and an old rusty chair. I climb through, my curiosity getting the better of me, and I grip the railing, the black paint peeling off in places, to glare down at the fistfight going on below me.

Well, I wouldn’t call it a fight so much as a beating. Two guys are holding another one in their tight grip while another pounds his face into a bloody mess. A fourth stands by, hands behind his back, looking on with a bored expression on his handsome face, his shock of black hair cut short but neatly styled.

“Enough,” this guy says and the one doing the beating steps back, not having even worked up a sweat.

I shrink back slightly as I don’t want them to see me, but that fucking curiosity needle is pricking me as it does. My thirst for all knowledge, even to find out why this poor soul is being beaten up, needs to be sated.

“Pay up, Jones, or Quentin here is going to keep going.”

Crouching low, my eyes shoot to ‘Quentin’. He is identical in looks to the guy who spoke, but his hair is much shorter, almost buzz-cut length, and he has a tattoo on his neck of something I can’t quite make out from my hidden perch on the side of this building. The grassy patch where the fight is taking place is neatly mowed and rubbish-free, but clearly, this area on the wrong side of campus leaves a lot to be desired.

“I don’t have the fucking money,” Jones spits out. “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

“Too fucking bad. That’s not really my problem. You pay for a service, and that service will be withdrawn if you don’t pay the piper. You know what that means. So, what’s it going to be?”

I’m riveted to this scene. It’s like some kind of movie playing out below me. I look around to see if this is the media club making a film, but all I see are the five guys locked in this, whatever the fuck it is.

Jones’ face appears terrified as he stammers, “I’ll find it. Okay, tomorrow. I swear.”

“Tomorrow, then.” The leader of this gang says, and the other two let Jones go.

Quentin cracks his knuckles, which sends a skitter of eww over my skin, and I creep backwards in case they want to make me their next target.

“Should’ve known the cheap rent would come with asshole neighbours,” I mutter as I somehow slide back through the window from my crouched position but ending up going headfirst with my ass sticking up in the air while I scramble forward.

From my position on my knees, I reach up to the window and pull the sash down, locking me away from the violence.

“Not a great start, Vogue. Avoid, avoid, avoid.”

Shaking my head as I get to my feet and brush my jeans off, I strip off quickly and get my pjs on, ready to settle down in preparation for my big day tomorrow.

Ruin Me - Crestmont University