Jack Lewis was twenty, and already the streets of South London moved when he said so. His name carried weight — whispered in estate stairwells and alley corners with a mix of fear and respect. Tracksuits always fresh, gold teeth flashing when he grinned, and his phone stayed lit day and night. Jack wasn’t just in the game. He ran it. Money moved because of him. Orders dropped because he said so.

His girl, Mia Russo, played her part well. Nineteen, loud when she needed to be, with North London family ties that gave her an edge. Everyone knew Mia was Jack’s. She stood at his side in public, sharp-tongued and loyal. But Jack never spoiled her. No designer bags. No luxury gifts. He kept her close for the image — the power couple look, South London’s king and queen. But that was all it was. Business. Status.

Because Jack’s real attention — his time, his money, his obsession — was tied up somewhere else. With Gemma Morgan.

Gemma, nineteen, with long blonde curls and soft lips that smiled sweet but carried danger underneath. She was supposed to be Reece Daniels’ girl — Reece, Jack’s oldest bredrin, now working the roads for him. Loyal, always out hustling, always trying to prove himself. But while Reece was chasing moves, Jack was crossing every line that kept their world intact.

It started small. A lift home after a party, when Reece was too waved to notice. Then the late-night texts, secret looks that stayed too long. Jack saved her number under “Plumber Kev”, but every time it popped up, his chest got tight. And soon enough, it turned into more — stolen kisses in dark corners, hands all over in backseats, hotel rooms paid in cash where they didn’t have to hide.

And Jack? He didn’t just want Gemma. He wanted to own her. So he started lacing her up. Spoiling her.

First, a Louis Vuitton clutch — light work, easy to pass off. Then a Moncler jacket — warm, expensive, for the nights she slid into his car, hood up, no questions asked. But Jack had real money. And soon, he wanted Gemma glowing — covered in things only he could give her.

Red-bottom Louboutins came next — every step she took flashing danger. A Cartier Love bracelet — solid gold, locked tight around her wrist like a chain only Jack had the key to. A Chanel necklace — diamonds glinting against her skin in hotel room lights, shining for no one else but him. Then the big move — an Hermès Birkin bag. Loud. Rare. A statement that couldn’t be ignored. “You’re not like the others,” Jack told her, watching her stroke the leather. “You’re mine. Only mine.”

Gemma’s heart pounded. She knew the rules. South London didn’t play when it came to loyalty — betrayal got paid back in blood. But when Jack touched her, when he spoiled her with gifts Mia would never see, when he made her feel like she was the only girl who mattered — the danger just made it sweeter.

Every time her name lit up on his phone, Jack felt the pull. Every time he smiled in Reece’s face like nothing was off, the guilt twisted in him — but the thrill twisted deeper.

This wasn’t just lust. Or maybe it was love, but the kind that burned dirty. It was hunger. Obsession. The kind of fire that didn’t stay hidden for long. The kind that could only end one way — in flames.

Jack Lewis knew the codes. He knew the streets. And he was breaking every single rule for Gemma Morgan — the only girl he laced up, the only one shining in the designer gifts no one else could touch. But in South London? Secrets like this never stayed secret for long. And when the streets caught on? Not money, not power, not even love would save them.