Arabella Seraphine Montgomery had seen hotels in Milan, penthouses in Paris, and summer villas in Santorini—okay, technically they weren't hers, but vacations counted. So when she dragged her final designer suitcase into the Crestwood dorm, she nearly fainted.
The carpet was beige. Beige.
Arabella froze mid-step, heels sinking into the offense against interior design.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, tossing her sunglasses onto the desk with unnecessary flair. "This is supposed to be a prestigious university, not a dental office waiting room."
She unzipped one suitcase, revealing color-coded outfits neatly folded in tissue paper. Each piece looked too luxurious for the sad little closet waiting in the corner.
"This closet is the size of a breadbox. Who lives like this?" she groaned, hanging up a sequined jacket that immediately swallowed half the rail. "And don't even get me started on the lighting—fluorescent? Am I in a prison?"
From across the room, Adrian Hayes sat on his bed, scrolling casually through his phone. At six-foot-two with messy dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he had the sort of presence that filled a room without trying. He didn't look up once during her meltdown.
Arabella shot him a look. "You're awfully quiet for someone sharing in this nightmare."
Adrian hummed, thumb flicking across his screen. "Mhm."
"Mhm?" Arabella repeated, incredulous. "That's all you have to say while I'm being psychologically assaulted by this décor?"
"Tragic," he replied dryly, still not looking at her.
Arabella's jaw dropped. "Tragic? TRAGIC?" She spun, hair flipping over her shoulder as she dramatically gestured toward the window. "That room—" she pointed toward the other side, the one with a sweeping view of the city skyline—"was clearly meant for me. Do you understand? Me. Arabella Seraphine Montgomery. It's practically destiny."
Adrian finally glanced up, his gaze steady and unamused. "You're in your room already."
"Yes, but not the room." She pressed a manicured hand to her chest like she'd been personally victimized. "That city view is mine. I thrive in natural light. I need inspiration. Beige walls and a parking lot view will kill me. Literally. My creativity? Dead. My soul? Crushed."
He slipped his phone into his pocket, leaned back against the headboard, and stretched his long legs out casually, like he had all the time in the world. "You'll survive."
Arabella gasped. Survive? Did this man not understand aesthetics, self-expression, basic human rights?
"I don't think you realize the gravity of this situation," she declared, spinning dramatically back to her suitcase. "My entire existence is at stake here."
Adrian smirked faintly, not unkind but absolutely unbothered. "Sounds rough."
Arabella whipped around. "You're impossible."
"And you're loud," he said calmly, leaning his head back against the wall as if she were white noise.
---
By the time orientation rolled around that evening, Arabella was already plotting her next move. Perhaps she could appeal to the housing office again. Or file a complaint. Or stage a peaceful protest outside the dean's office in head-to-toe Chanel.
She strutted into the auditorium like it was a runway, a silk blouse catching the light, heels clacking confidently on the linoleum floor. Adrian walked beside her, hands in his pockets, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else. His height drew stares. Her aura drew whispers. Together, they looked like something out of a glossy magazine—and Arabella hated it.
They slid into two seats near the front, and Arabella instantly sat up straighter, prepared to dazzle. The orientation leader launched into introductions, calling on students randomly to "share something fun about yourself."
Arabella's hand shot up before anyone else's. "Arabella Seraphine Montgomery," she announced with a perfect smile. "But you can call me Bella. Fun fact: I was voted Best Dressed three years in a row at St. Claire's Academy, and I own more shoes than this entire row combined."
A few chuckles. A few impressed looks. Exactly as planned.
Then, inevitably, the leader's gaze shifted. "And you?" She pointed at Adrian.
He lifted his head slowly, as if he'd been asked to recite the alphabet.
"Adrian Hayes," he said simply. Pause. "Fun fact: I don't have a fun fact."
The room laughed. Not at him, but with him. Arabella's eye twitched.
The leader grinned. "And you two are…?"
"Roommates," Adrian supplied coolly before Arabella could speak.
There was an audible murmur. A couple of students smirked knowingly, someone whispered, "Lucky," and another muttered, "They already act like a married couple."
Arabella turned scarlet—not from embarrassment, but pure, simmering rage. She snapped her head toward Adrian, who was leaning back in his chair like he didn't notice the comments, like none of it mattered. His blue eyes caught hers briefly, a faint flicker of amusement in them.
She glared. He smirked.
Arabella Seraphine Montgomery had a new mission: proving to everyone—and especially to him—that she was absolutely not his other half.