The Gigolo's Gambit

“Hey! Hey! I know I accepted the offer, but that was because I thought it was a gag. People always think I’m fair game because well, you know…” His voice trailed off as he finally saw the car the ‘bodyguards’ had dragged him toward.

A sleek black Porsche Taycan Turbo. Silver accents. Immaculate detailing. Down to the last line, the last curve, exactly like the one he’d mentioned in his reply.

He let out a low whistle. “This is not real. Oh my God, oh my f**ing* God. Bro, that’s a 2024 Porsche Taycan. NO WAY!”

He fist-bumped one of the bodyguards’ shoulders and whooped, loud enough to startle the other guy, who narrowly dodged an accidental punch to the jaw.

“Matt, what’s happening? Where are these people taking you?” I rush beside him, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Taylor… I think I just walked into one of my fantasies. Remember that weird request on my OnlyFans? The one I answered as a joke because obviously nobody would be that liquid or that interested?”

I remember. And my stomach sinks.

Without thinking, I step forward, arms spread. “I’m not letting you kidnap my friend!”

I plant myself between Matt and the men in black suits. My wolf stirs, low and sharp, coiling like a spring beneath my skin. Every muscle tenses, claws of instinct itching to break free, to protect.

I clamp down, forcing it back, but I feel a flicker of heat in my blood, senses sharpening beyond what’s human. I hear the faintest shifts in their weight, smell the leather of the car, the cold iron in the air, sense danger before it even happens. The men are huge with a precise, effortless efficiency in their movements that normal human bodyguards don’t have. My mind instinctively searched for a biological signature, the unique animal warmth that spoke of pack or species , but found nothing, a complete void. They weren’t human, but whatever they were, they were colder, more controlled than any creature I knew.”

This is very, very bad.

The one on the left raises a brow. Just one. Annoyed, but controlled. “Miss, step aside. This doesn’t concern you.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” I snap, even though my palms are sweating. "The hell it doesn’t. This is campus grounds. You have no legal jurisdiction here, and I’m demanding proof of consent, not just an expensive car.”

Matt grins, oblivious bouncing behind me like he'd just won a sweepstake. Sweet, stupid, painfully human Matt. “Tae, relax. This is clearly one of those millionaire prank things. Or maybe... oh my God, what if it’s a sugar daddy recruitment? Wait.” He squints at the car. “Wait. Do sugar daddies drive cars that ethical? I’m missing the hedonism angle here.”

“This isn’t funny,” I hiss.

One of them lifts a hand, not threatening, just steady. “Miss, we’re only here to escort Mr. Hale.”

“Escort him where?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend.

He doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, and the unease in my stomach twists tighter.

Matt laughs, a shrill sound, and throws his hands up. “Look, if this is about the money thing, I swear I didn’t actually think anyone would pay a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Matt,” I interrupt sharply. “Did you give them your address?”

“Well… yeah. They offered me double if I did the meet-up part. And you know I’m broke, so..." His voice trails off.

Matt nudges me gently. “Tay… it’s fine. I mean it’s not fine, but they’re not trying to shove me in a trunk. Look at the car. Look at them. This is… legit. Somehow.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. But I need to see this through. Just in case it’s real.”

The man nearest to us opens the rear door of the Porsche like he’s been trained to do it a thousand times. The inside looks even more expensive than the exterior, leather so smooth it reflects light, ambient detailing glowing faintly under the seats.

It hits me then that someone paid for all of this. Someone responded to Matt’s ridiculous list of demands and didn’t blink.

Matt turns to me, excitement and nerves fighting in his expression. “Taylor… stay close, okay? Don’t go far.”

“You’re actually going?”

He smiles, small but certain. “Yeah. I think I have to.”

I swallow hard and step back, still watching the bodyguards like they might change their minds at any second. Matt slides into the car, and the door closes with a quiet, final click.

The Porsche pulls away from the curb, smooth as a whisper.

I didn’t hesitate. I sprinted back to my car, heart hammering, fingers fumbling with the keys. The engine roared to life, a familiar comfort amidst the chaos.

I pulled onto the road, keeping a safe distance but not letting the sleek black car out of sight. The streets curved, traffic light but present. I adjusted my mirrors; eyes locked on the Porsche as it weaved effortlessly through campus roads.

Matt leaned back in the rear seat, oblivious to the danger, grinning like it was a joyride. My stomach twisted. Whoever sent that car didn’t just meet a whim, they were organized, powerful, and precise.

The Porsche exited the main road, moving toward a less-traveled path. I followed, careful not to draw attention. Snow patches appeared on the pavement, ice glinting in the fading light. My hands gripped the wheel tighter. I could feel the Porsche’s rhythm, the subtle shifts in speed, and I calculated every turn. The car slows in front of a sleek hotel with polished glass, modern architecture, and soft golden lights spilling onto the street. Valets moved efficiently, opening doors for guests, while luxury cars lined the curb. Even in this bustling city scene, the Porsche moved like it owned the place, precise and effortless.

I gripped the wheel tighter, senses alert. My wolf stirred beneath the surface, restless at the unusual control, the seamless execution of every movement. They lead Matt into the hotel. My phone lights up, a text from Matt.

"Tay, they took me to a hotel. Lumen Vale, can you believe that!🤭 I feel like I'm in heaven. The flight is tomorrow, don't worry yourself sick. I'm fine, wanna take a quick shower and help myself to the amenities here😉 We'll facetime later."

I exhaled, tension easing slightly. He was fine… for now. But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

He included a cropped screenshot of a document in the contract showing a name: The Blackwood Estate. A lead finally.

I tucked my phone away and glanced at my dashboard. My wolf stirred restless, eager to take over. "Danika, I'm sorry okay? I know you want to protect Matt but we can't be brash. I gotta do this right." She whines softly and goes quiet.

I head back to campus.

I didn’t bother using my own key. I knew his code: the birthdate of the only orphanage caretaker who had ever been kind to him. The lock clicked, and I was inside the messy, cramped dorm room that was the only place Matt ever let his polished facade drop.

The laptop glowed a cold blue on his desk.

I clicked the OnlyFans message page. The client profile, @EternalBliss, was a void. No picture, no history. But the message Matt had received was stark: The Taycan is waiting. The conditions have been met. I look forward to your arrival.

It was the professionalism, the chilling lack of personality, that unnerved me most.

I scrolled back, past Matt’s ridiculously pompous demands for ski slopes and private jets and found the link he’d mentioned: the deposit confirmation. I opened the dense, digital file. It was boilerplate legal jargon, NDAs and liability waivers that shielded the client from accountability for “emotional, psychological, or physical duress.” This wasn’t a joke; it was a contract for abuse.

Buried deep in the clauses was the location: “The Blackwood Estate, an undisclosed, private holding in the Swiss Alps, accessible via private air travel only.”

The Alps. That was as real as they come, a super luxurious holiday resort for the uber rich. What on earth had Matt gotten himself into?

I scrolled to the signature page. The client’s name was listed as a title: “The Matriarch.”

My breath hitched. Below the elegant, looping signature of the Matriarch, hidden in plain sight, was a small, embossed symbol. It looked like a seal, pressed into the digital parchment:

A crown, perched precariously on two thin, sharp fangs that interlocked at the base.

A Matriarch. A crown. Fangs. This didn’t belong in Matt’s world of lonely clients and performative charm. This felt like the world I had fought tooth and nail to escape. The world of ancient money, control, and twisted, generational power that viewed people as assets.

"Shit! No no no no, Matt, what the hell did you get yourself into?" I curse under my breath.

I knew that symbol. Or, rather, I knew the type of symbol. My family was obsessed with lineage, with heraldry, with the signs of true, untainted power. It was partly why I'd left and never looked back. The Matriarch’s seal felt impossibly old and authoritative.

I have less than 16 hours before Matt is on a private jet, completely incommunicado, heading straight to a ‘Blackwood Estate’ owned by someone who signed documents with a crest featuring fangs. I had to assume the worst: Matt was not a lover; he was bait.

I slammed the laptop shut and grabbed my purse.

I sprinted out of the dorm and across the courtyard, not toward my library study carrel, but towards the one place on campus that dealt with the arcane, the bizarre, and the deeply historic: The Department of Ancient Studies.

I burst into the Classics building, slowing my pace instantly.

The library wing for Ancient Studies was quiet, smelling of dust and dried leather. It was almost empty; students rarely came here outside of required courses. I headed straight past the open reading room. Matt’s potential kidnapper used a crest with fangs.

I needed the pedigree.

I took the stairs down to the temperature-controlled basement archives. I ignored the public access terminals and went to the reference desk, perks of being an honors student.

“I need materials on European heraldry,” I told the graduate assistant, keeping my voice low and steady. “Specifically, the 17th and 18th-century noble lines tied to the Swiss and Austrian border regions. Documents concerning titles like ‘Matriarch’ or ‘Patriarch.’”

The assistant looked bored but complied, handing me the clipboard for the rare books section. A) The rare books section on European heraldry and aristocratic lineage.

He pointed to a set of heavy, steel-framed doors. “Shelves 4 through 8. Sign out anything you pull.”

I pushed through the heavy doors. The air was cold, the silence pressurized. I moved fast, scanning the shelves, ignoring the vast, official tomes detailing legitimate Swiss and Austrian lineage. Those books recorded power that was public, negotiated. Matt was entangled in something private, something hidden.

My hand passed over the gilt edges of The Continental Houses and settled instead on a thin, nondescript binder: The Undocumented Lineages. This was where the history professors kept the scandals, the unverified claims, and the seals too dangerous to be officially published.

I spread the binder on the nearest table. I processed the handwritten notes and photocopied seals, my eyes racing across the pages until I hit an entry detailing a forgotten family in the Valais region of Switzerland.

Under the heading VALLORIAN was a note, scrawled in faint black ink: “A powerful, isolated lineage. Reputed for holding absolute local control. Seal: Crown of Valois atop two stylized… fangs? Likely ceremonial or symbolic of ‘eternal lineage.’ Known internally only as ‘The Matriarchal Line.’”

Beneath the text was a photocopied sketch of the symbol. It was an exact match. The crown, the looping script, and the sharp, interlocking lines beneath it.

Vallorian.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I wouldn’t call him, he was likely already under surveillance. I opened the browser and typed in the only concrete facts I had: “Vallorian Matriarch Blackwood Estate.”

The first result was a small, dusty blog from an independent investigative journalist, dated three years ago. The title was blunt: “Blackwood Estate: Where the Rich Hide Their Crimes.”

I clicked it. The article was short, but every word was a punch to the gut. The estate was a known, unofficial site for “ultra-high-net-worth transactions” that often skirted international law. The Vallorian family name was mentioned once, tied to rumors of aggressive political manipulation and alleged human trafficking. The journalist had vanished after publishing the article.

Damn Matt and his penchant for cheap thrills. I'm busting my friend out of there. Time to call some old friends.