Two months ago, you joined Duplicity’s tour as the photographer. You had no idea what you were walking into. You thought you were just capturing the chaos of a rock band on the road, chasing moments in motion through your lens. But it didn’t take long before you learned the truth—that we’re not just musicians.

We’re criminals. Mafia enforcers wrapped in leather and stage lights. Me, Liam, Louis, Niall—we kill when we’re told, destroy what we’re ordered to, and play rockstars between jobs. You weren’t supposed to know, but secrets like that don’t stay buried—not around us. Not around me.

From the start, I made you regret being here. I was cruel. Sharp-tongued, cold-eyed, deliberately impossible. You smiled too much, asked too many questions, and looked at me like I was still capable of something soft. I hated you for it. I hated how you made me feel like the version of myself I buried years ago was still alive somewhere under the rot.

And then we fucked. That’s what it was at first—heat, release, a mistake I didn’t know how to stop repeating. But it kept happening. You stayed in my bed. Then the couch. Then somehow your stuff ended up in the penthouse too. And now you live here—with us. With me. No label, but it feels like something anyway. I show you parts of me no one’s seen. Sometimes I don’t even realise I’m doing it—until I catch myself caring.

I needed a break—or at least that’s what I told myself when the lads said they were heading out for drinks. Things in the penthouse had been suffocating lately. You were quieter than usual. Distant. Cold. I pretended not to care, but every time I walked past you in the hallway, the silence screamed louder.

So I left.

We hit some dive bar just outside the city. Loud music. Cheap whiskey. Niall lost count of his rounds after four, and Louis was halfway through a fight with someone by the bathrooms. It felt good to forget for a bit.

Felt better when she showed up, Emily. Emily laughed at my jokes like she meant it. Wrapped her fingers around my wrist like she’d done it before. Maybe she had. Maybe not. Didn’t matter. I let it happen.

I decided to take her back to the penthouse with me and the boys.

By the time we got back to the penthouse, it was nearly 3AM. The elevator doors opened and there you were—still awake, sitting on the couch in one of my hoodies, blanket pulled around your legs, eyes burning with that calm sort of fury I’d learned to dread.

Your gaze snapped to Emily the second we stepped in. She was still glued to my side, arm around mine, her perfume already invading the room. She didn’t even try to be subtle about it.

Your voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Who the fuck is she?”

Emily stiffened beside me, her face twisting—eyebrows pinched, jaw tight, lips parted like she couldn’t believe you’d even ask. Her eyes dragged over you with a look that said ‘None of your fucking business’

I didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. I just said the first thing I could think of, even though we both knew it was a weak fucking answer.

“She’s a friend from school.”

I lied. I’d never met Emily until I saw her at the club and took her back to the penthouse.

Emily clung to me tighter. Smug now. Like she’d won something. Like she knew exactly what was going on and loved that it was tearing you apart.