The walk back from orientation was… loud. Well, one-sided loud.
Arabella stomped down the path in her ridiculous heels, waving her hands like she was narrating a documentary about injustice.
"Can you believe them? Whispering like that, staring like that! As if *I* would voluntarily be associated with you!" she huffed, glaring at Adrian.
Adrian shoved his hands in his pockets. "Hm."
"Hm? That's all you have to say? Hm?" She almost tripped over the curb but recovered with dramatic flair. "You should be groveling. Thanking me. Do you know how damaging rumors can be for someone of *my* social standing?"
Adrian finally looked at her. "You tripped."
Arabella gasped. "I did not trip! I stumbled gracefully. There's a difference."
---
When they finally reached the dorm, Arabella practically burst through the door. She tossed her designer tote on the couch, snatched a gold-trimmed notepad from her desk, and clicked a pen like she was about to sign a million-dollar deal.
"Ground rules," she announced, scribbling furiously. "Since you clearly lack direction in life, I, Arabella Delacroix, will establish order."
Adrian leaned against the wall, amused but silent.
Rule #1: No speaking to me before 10 a.m. I require beauty sleep.
Rule #2: No touching my skincare products. They are imported.
Rule #3: No inviting suspiciously average-looking girls into this dorm. They depress the aesthetic.
Rule #4: Always knock. Even if the door is already open.
Rule #5: No breathing too loudly in my presence.
She spun around dramatically and slapped the notepad on the table. "There. Signed, sealed, delivered."
Adrian picked it up, skimmed it, then slowly tore off a page from his own notebook. With calm precision, he wrote:
Rule #1: Don't talk so much.
Rule #2: Seriously. Don't.
He slid the paper across the table, deadpan.
Arabella blinked at it, then let out a scandalized gasp. "You—you can't just—this is a dictatorship, not a democracy!"
"Mm," Adrian replied, already walking toward his room.
Arabella clutched her chest like he'd stabbed her with words. "You are insufferable!" she yelled after him.
His door clicked shut.
---
Alone, Arabella tossed herself onto her bed, limbs flopping dramatically. She stared at the ceiling, replaying his annoyingly calm face in her head. The nerve of him. The audacity. The—ugh.
"He's not even cute," she muttered to no one. Then paused. "…Okay, maybe a little. But that's irrelevant."
She groaned, buried her face into a pillow, and decided right then and there: Adrian Knight was officially her mortal enemy.
For now.