𝑰 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼

𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬? 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠?

The dorm is quiet, for once, and I'm savoring every second of it.

I'm stretched out on my bed, my back propped against a pile of perfectly fluffed pillows, scrolling through my phone. My feed is exactly as it should be—perfect: curated shots of exclusive parties, designer outfits, and vacations on private yachts. There's a DM from Claudia about the new spring collection dropping next week, another from Luke asking if I'm still coming to the gala on Friday.

I leave them both on read. Let them wait.

The dorm room itself is nothing to write home about. Sure, it's spacious enough, with high ceilings and custom furniture that doesn't scream "private boarding school," but it's still a dorm. No matter how much money is funneled into this place, it'll never feel like home—not that I'd want it to.

My roommate, Emily Hartmann, has been gone for a week now, off in some American exchange program or whatever nonsense she signed up for. Honestly, I was thrilled when she told me. She's harmless—quiet, studious, and far too nice for her own good—but even her presence grated on me. Her incessant humming. Her stupid Post-it notes stuck to our shared calendar. "Don't forget to breathe!" one of them had said.

Like I needed her advice to function.

So, yes, this silence?

Pure. Fucking. Bliss.

I cross my legs, shifting on the plush duvet, and toss my phone onto the bed. A rare moment of peace at Hawthorne Academy is a luxury I've earned. Between leading student council, managing my social hierarchy, and keeping the sycophants in line, I deserve this.

I glance at the antique clock on the wall, its hands ticking lazily toward noon. No meetings today. No mandatory events. Just me, my room, and—

A knock at the door.

Never fucking mind.

My jaw tightens instantly. Of course. Someone always has to ruin it. I don't bother moving, instead calling out, "What?" in a tone that carries just the right mix of annoyance and authority.

The door creaks open, and it's not who I expect. It's Miss Hawthorne's assistant—Mrs. Laurent, the one with the perpetually tight bun and no sense of humor. She steps into the room, her expression clipped and professional, and I know immediately this isn't a social call.

"Miss Delacroix," she begins, her tone formal, "I'm here to inform you that you'll be receiving a new roommate today."

I blink. For a moment, I'm sure I've misheard her. "Excuse me?"

She doesn't flinch. "A new roommate has been assigned to this dormitory. She'll be moving in shortly."

"Uh, no," I say flatly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and standing. "That's not happening."