ɪ ɢᴇᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴅᴇsɪʀᴇ

💿    now playing    💿        “       behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.        “      ⎯⎯⎯⎯         #alluerance:   dependent  multi-muse  based  in  @excessfms​ ,  Alluerance is  brought  and  narrated  to  you  by  444. mature topics will be present through themes such as angst, crime and other triggering content. 

    𐚁 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒    𐚁  𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆   𐚁 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓  𐚁 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒   

"If this nigga don't shut the fuck up..." Triton mumbles to himself as he sits on the couch in his home, scrolling through all the comments from Doombug. "Pay me... I should stuff his ass in a punching bag and beat 'em," he says under his breath before landing on Armin’s video and pressing play, listening to the audio.

He says to himself before he lands on Armin's video and plays it listening to the audio. He then looks at the caption understanding what he was doing, he was poking fun at the Dulce's, Imposter Armin, wife. She lost her man to the LA Jail system and Armin was gonna troll talking about sliding his ass in. Triton knew Armin didn't know who her cousin was, but Triton also didn't know if Lion would give a shit. It's not like he had social media to comment. If Armin did manage to replace the old Armin, Lion would most likely to be the last to know.

"This fucka is drainin’ me..." Triton groans, tossing his phone down for a second before getting back up to check on the custom grillz he ordered for himself and Simone. She hadn’t said much about all the wedding talk, but that silence always meant she was planning something expensive. Real expensive. Triton knew the money was there — he just didn’t know if it was gonna still be there after she got done tryna show off.

"Nephew!" a loud familiar voice calls out.

His aunt Tamera and his late sister's friend Skakera walks in, followed by an unfamiliar face trailing behind her. Triton exhales heavy, leaning back on the couch and pointing without even looking up.

"Who the fuck is that and why she in my house? She a gift or somethin’?" he asks flatly.

His Aunt Tamera steps forward, already pulling a rolled-up newspaper from her purse. Before he can even react, she smacks him with it.

"Ow—what the—" Triton shouts with anger in his tone.

"She’s my niece, aka your cousin! Y’all grew up together before you went off and did lord knows what in the name of the devil," she snaps.

Tamera gestures toward the girl. "This is Noht… well, her real name is Seven, but we call her Noht."

Triton squints at her for a second, unimpressed.

"Now where is Simone? I saw the post and we here to help her plan everything. We her bridal party," Skakera says, sass heavy in her tone.

"Lyric would be so shocked somebody actually want you," Skakera adds with a laugh. "I’m shocked for her."

Tamera and Noht chuckle behind her.

Triton exhales through his nose, not amused at all.

dakangdom via private ig post to his ass kissers in the syndicate : Difference between 2nd & 3rd pics is I'm actually bigger and weigh more. 2nd pic i was pumped because I just worked out 5min before the pic, 3rd pic is me naturally doing a photoshoot not pumped. 2nd pic I was creatine. 3rd pic I no longer take creatine, I'm running more, my abs are better, my shoulders are bigger, MY LEGS ARE BIGGER. We still working💪🏽🥶 y'all don't have to see the difference but I know my body and what I'm focusing on now in the gym 🙏🏽

doombuggin : boss ima get like you

doombuggin : i'll pay ya to train me

The pressure didn’t come from a place of superiority and judgement; it came from the raw, protective instinct of a tight-knit family that simply loved her too much to watch her drown.

Paloma and Merlin were ordinary people who had built a quiet, good life defined by closeness, honesty, and looking out for one another. They were the kind of family that showed up for everything, that held each other together through regular life storms. To see their daughter dragged into a world of gang enhancements, violent felonies, and a 56-year prison sentence broke their hearts. The disappointment in her father’s eyes wasn’t about a tarnished reputation; it was the heavy, suffocating sorrow of a dad who couldn't shield his child from a lifetime of collateral damage. Her mother’s grief was visceral and frantic—Paloma didn't care about the optics, she just saw her daughter being pulled into a black hole by a man who had thrown his own life away.

"You are a Morales," Merlin told her, his voice cracking with a fierce, protective ache during one of their quiet kitchen table conversations. "You have always been a Morales. Dulce. That is who you are, mija. Come back to us."

They didn't suggest a divorce out of spite; they begged for it as a matter of emotional survival. Paloma couldn't even bring herself to say Armin's name anymore, treating it like a toxic substance that had contaminated their family. They wanted the paperwork filed because they wanted a clean break for her. More than anything, they wanted the name Hernandez scrubbed from her life. To them, carrying that last name was a heavy, unfair anchor, linking her forever to a tragedy that wasn't hers to bear. They just wanted their daughter back, safe, whole, and anchored in the family that had always been her safety net.

The realization didn’t hit Dulce with a dramatic slam of a gavel; it crept in through the cold, transactional language of a bank notification. Well before any jury was selected, she sat in the quiet of her kitchen, staring at a screen that told her she could no longer move her own money.

Once the state elevated Armin’s charges, wrapping them in the ugly, heavy vocabulary of gang enhancements and violent felonies, the system reached out its invisible hands. They didn't lock her out completely—that would have given her something tangible to fight. Instead, they choked her access. Transfers hung in limbo for days. Simple transactions for the penthouse lease or daily expenses felt like begging for permission. Even her music revenue—the money she had sweated for, the platform earnings that belonged to her voice and her brand—was caught in the gears, paused and held in escrow under the sterile threat of "asset forfeiture." It was a deeply violating kind of helplessness. The system was quietly rewriting her hard work as potential criminal collateral.

Amor tried. God, she tried. She stepped into the panic with names like Aziel Bassett, talking about high-tier defense attorneys who could wave a magic wand and make the nightmare slow down. But looking at those retainers was like looking through a glass wall at a life-raft she couldn't afford to throw. The reality was a cold shock to the system: the kind of defense Armin needed required the kind of generational wealth and family backing they simply didn’t have. For the first time in her life, Dulce understood the brutal, unvarnished truth of the world. Money wasn’t about luxury, or clothes, or aesthetic comfort. It was about defense. It was about buying your way into a room where people actually listened to you. Without it, you were just a name on a docket, entirely disposable.

By the time sentencing day arrived, Dulce felt like a ghost inhabiting her own body. The courtroom was too bright, smelling of cheap floor wax and stale coffee, entirely detached from the life-or-death gravity of what was happening inside it.

When the judge delivered the final ruling—56 years in state prison, with no possibility of parole for over three decades—the air left her lungs.

The number didn't make sense. Fifty-six. It was an abstraction, a lifetime, an entire universe ending in a single breath. The weight didn't hit her in one crushing blow; it fractured through her, hairline cracks splintering across her composure as the judge read the enhancements, the charges, and the agonizing weight of the victim statements. Every word was a brick laid on her chest until she could barely breathe.

Outside the courtroom, the hallway was a blur of fluorescent light. Amor was still talking, her voice urgent, spinning threads of hope about appeals and next steps, but Dulce could barely hear her through the ringing in her ears. They both knew the truth. The options weren't real anymore. The doors had shut.

What Dulce felt in that corridor wasn’t a scream or a burst of rage. It was a profound, terrifying collapse. The fragile scaffolding she had built to keep herself upright over the last few months simply turned to dust. Her frozen accounts, her stolen stability, her grand plans for the future—they all drifted away, suddenly meaningless and completely out of reach.

In the hollowed-out center of that grief, the silence of the people who should have been there cut the deepest. She hadn’t heard from Wade. She hadn’t heard from Buddha, she was okay with that since they both hurt her. But that quiet from people who used to fill her days was a physical ache, a secondary betrayal that made the cold courthouse walls feel even colder.

But then there was Lion.

Lion didn't offer toxic positivity. He didn't try to rewrite the ugly truth of what Armin had done, nor did he ask her to pretend the wreckage wasn't real. He just stood there. A steady, unmoving anchor in the middle of a current that was trying to drag her under. In a world where everything had a price tag and a legal consequence, his quiet, unconditional presence was the only thing keeping her feet on the floor.

Rubi moved through the house that morning with a steady kind of intention, the kind she had to learn after everything had already been taken apart and slowly put back together. It was June now — summer settling into the walls of the home — and Raquel had just finished her junior year. There was no rush of school mornings yet, no early alarms or packed lunches, but Rubi was already quietly rebuilding structure anyway. On the kitchen table sat college brochures fanned out beside a small planner opened to August dates, senior-year prep notes already beginning to take shape even though school hadn’t started yet. Prom talk had started slipping into their conversations too — soft, careful planning, nothing rushed, just the idea of something normal and teenage and far away from everything that had happened. They weren’t pretending the past hadn’t happened, but they were learning how to stop living inside it.

Since Armin Hernandez’s sentencing on May 13th, 2026 — 56 years in state prison with no possibility of parole for 35+ years, there had been a shift in the house that was subtle but real. Not peace exactly, not yet, but space. Space to breathe. Space to plan. Space for Raquel to exist without constantly being pulled backward by fear or memory. Rubi noticed it in the small things — how Raquel started sleeping a little longer without waking up in the middle of the night, how she lingered at the table during breakfast instead of rushing away, how she began to ask questions about colleges again like she wasn’t afraid of the future being taken from her.

That morning, Rubi checked the calendar on the fridge and circled late summer dates — orientation schedules, FAFSA deadlines, and early senior-year meetings. She left sticky notes beside them in her handwriting, soft reminders rather than instructions. In Raquel’s room, she folded laundry while her daughter scrolled quietly on her phone, and for once the silence between them didn’t feel heavy. It just felt like life happening at its own pace again.

When Raquel finally came into the kitchen, Rubi gently fixed the strap of her tank top and handed her a glass of water like it was routine, like it always had been. “We’re gonna start planning your prom outfit early,” she said lightly, watching her reaction carefully. “No last-minute stress. You deserve to actually enjoy it this time.” Her voice softened as she added the rest, stepping closer to brush a bit of hair from Raquel’s face. “Senior year is going to be yours. No interruptions. No chaos. Just you figuring out who you’re supposed to be.”

THORPE RESERVE, JAMAICA

"Privacy Is The Ultimate Luxury"

First Impressions

Arrival at Thorpe Reserve involves no grand declarations—no flashing signs, gold statues, or theatrical fountains. Instead, a long, winding, palm-lined drive slowly reveals a grand coastal manor that feels less like a hotel and more like a billionaire’s private Hamptons estate transported to the Caribbean. The architecture effortlessly blends Ralph Lauren sophistication with colonial Caribbean heritage, modern glass, and the exclusivity of an old-money private club. Built from white limestone, natural teak, and warm cream walls, the open-air corridors ensure the ocean is visible from nearly every angle. Nothing screams wealth here; everything whispers it.

The Lobby

Step inside, and the immediate sensation is olfactory: a curated blend of fresh citrus, sea salt, white tea, and cedarwood. The lobby deliberately mimics a private mansion, styled with massive bookshelves, fresh flowers, handmade Jamaican art, and a grand piano playing softly in the background. The staff already knows your name. It’s an environment where the truly wealthy instantly feel at home, while the upper-middle class are quietly reminded that they are visiting someone else’s world.

The Accommodations

Space is the baseline luxury. No room is under 1,200 square feet; even the entry-level suites dwarf the average home.

The Guest Rooms: Featuring floor-to-ceiling windows, private terraces, marble bathrooms, and deep soaking tubs, every room is outfitted with custom furniture built exclusively for the resort. A bottle of aged Jamaican rum waits on the counter—not as a flashy perk, but because it simply belongs there. The richest guests don't give it a second thought; everyone else spends five minutes calculating the net worth of the decor.

The Villas: This is where guests begin questioning their life choices. Offering total isolation, the villas feature private chefs, private pools, private beaches, and dedicated security. Guests stay for a week and spend the next six months browsing real estate websites they can't afford.

The Pools & Beach

Water at Thorpe Reserve is segmented by mood, not just design.

The Family Pool: Warm, lively, and soundtracked by the ambient noise of children playing and attentive servers delivering drinks.

The Quiet Pool: Adults only. No music, no phones, no influencers. No exceptions.

The Infinity Pool: The property's crown jewel merges seamlessly into the Caribbean Sea, flanked by private cabanas, personal attendants, and continuous champagne service. It’s a place where guests easily convince themselves they deserve this lifestyle—until they see the bill.

The Beach: Pure, uninterrupted serenity. There are no wristbands, crowds, beach vendors, or jet-ski chaos. Just pristine sand, private loungers, and attendants who materialize before you even realize you need something. The beach doesn’t feel public; it feels inherited.

Dining & The Marina

The culinary experience completely bypasses typical resort tropes. The food is authentic, local, and fiercely Caribbean—featuring fresh seafood caught that morning and hyper-local produce crafted by world-class chefs. During private dining experiences, menus are presented without prices. The wealthy don’t notice; everyone else does.

But the true power center of the property is the Marina, a detail most casual guests overlook. Yachts line the docks, hosting private dinners aboard vessels worth more than entire neighborhoods. This is where business deals, corporate acquisitions, and high-stakes political conversations happen. The hotel is merely the beautiful attraction; the marina is the machine where Nasir actually makes money.

The Thorpe DNA

What truly defines a Thorpe property is its psychological atmosphere. No one is rude, snobbish, or elitist. No one needs to make you feel poor—the environment does that entirely on its own.

A guest from a comfortable, successful background arrives feeling accomplished. Yet, within three days, the reality of true wealth sets in: the family in Villa 8 arrived via helicopter; the family in Villa 12 owns global shipping ports; the couple at dinner operates a fleet of private aircraft; and the woman reading quietly by the pool has a net worth of half a billion dollars.

Nasir Thorpe — June 2026

If someone had asked Nasir six months ago whether he believed his son would be where he is today, the answer would have been no.

Not because NJ lacked intelligence.

Not because he lacked potential.

Because potential was meaningless without discipline.

The concerns had started long before anyone else realized it. Long before Tatiana began openly questioning the boy's readiness. Long before cousins started quietly positioning their children closer to the succession line. Nasir had seen it himself shortly after NJ's second birthday. The softness. The emotional dependence. The hesitation. Traits that might be acceptable in other families but were liabilities in a Thorpe heir.

That realization had forced Nasir into uncomfortable territory. For the first time in his life, he had considered alternatives.

Adoption.

A second child.

Even the possibility of grooming another heir entirely.

None of the options were appealing. All of them would have been humiliating. The headlines alone would have damaged the family. The son of Nasir Thorpe deemed unworthy of succession. Tatiana would have understood it. The board would have accepted it. But it would have remained a permanent stain on the family record.

So instead, Nasir chose a different route.

He decided to rebuild the boy.

The changes began quietly.

Additional tutors.

Structured routines.

More exposure to executive environments.

Controlled socialization.

Expectations that were clear and non-negotiable.

Karla proved unexpectedly useful. She understood systems. More importantly, she understood that succession was not about making NJ happy. It was about making him capable. She organized schedules, monitored performance, and eliminated distractions without needing constant supervision. Results followed.

By June, the differences were becoming impossible to ignore.

NJ no longer dissolved into frustration when challenged. He listened more than he spoke. He carried himself with increasing confidence. Even the recent incident at Summit Hills had demonstrated progress. The boy had been insulted, challenged, and pressured by other children. Yet he hadn't cried. He hadn't panicked. He hadn't embarrassed himself.

He held his ground.

That mattered.

Four years old was still four years old. Nasir understood that. The child was nowhere near where he needed to be. Tatiana still maintained her contingency plans. Other branches of the family were still positioning their own children. The threat had not disappeared.

But for the first time in a long time, Nasir felt something he hadn't allowed himself to feel regarding succession.

Cautious optimism.

Not confidence.

Not pride.

Potential.

The throne was still his son's to lose.

At least for now.

The Jamaica Project

If NJ represented the future of the Thorpe bloodline, Jamaica represented the future of Nasir's empire.

The development stretched across miles of pristine beachfront acquired after the hurricane recovery period. Critics called it opportunistic. Investors called it visionary.

Nasir called it inevitable.

From the air, the property resembled a private coastal kingdom.

The main resort sat elevated above the shoreline, built from pale limestone, glass, and dark tropical woods. Massive infinity pools appeared to spill directly into the Caribbean Sea. Palm-lined pathways connected villas hidden among lush gardens designed to feel secluded despite being part of a larger complex.

At the center stood the flagship hotel—a modern architectural statement of glass walls, floating terraces, and open-air courtyards. Everything was designed around views of the water.

No detail was accidental.

The northern side of the property contained the private residences. Multi-million-dollar villas with personal pools, private beach access, rooftop lounges, and dedicated concierge services. The kind of homes purchased by heads of state, billionaires, and old-money families seeking discretion.

Along the marina sat rows of luxury yachts.

Nearby, a private members' club overlooked the harbor. No cameras. No press. No tourists.

Just influence.

The western end of the development housed a wellness sanctuary complete with oceanfront spas, meditation gardens, medical longevity facilities, and private treatment suites.

Future phases would include:

Executive conference centers

Luxury retail boutiques

A private aviation terminal

Additional branded residences

Invitation-only investment retreats

Nasir didn't view the resort as a hotel.

Hotels generated revenue.

This generated power.

It would become a destination where business leaders negotiated acquisitions over rum aged longer than some companies had existed. Where politicians mingled with investors. Where alliances formed beneath Caribbean sunsets.

A Thorpe asset.

A Thorpe network.

A Thorpe kingdom built on the edge of the sea.