Arabella stormed out of the cafeteria like she'd just been personally betrayed by the entire culinary industry. Her ruined blouse was clutched in her hands, her tray abandoned, and her dramatic sighs echoed through the hallway.
"Unbelievable. First the dorms, then the view, and now *this*. What's next—am I supposed to eat out of a dog bowl?" she muttered under her breath, stomping down the corridor like she was walking a runway.
Adrian, of course, didn't chase after her. He simply carried his own tray, sat down at a table, and started eating like nothing had happened.
But fate wasn't on Arabella's side. Because when she circled back ten minutes later, tray in hand again, every table was full. Packed. Except—
She froze. The only empty spot was across from him.
"No," she whispered to herself. "Absolutely not."
Adrian glanced up, fork halfway to his mouth, and raised an eyebrow like he already knew what she was thinking.
Arabella scowled. But hunger gnawed at her stomach, and the fries were already cooling on her tray. With the kind of grace only a queen in exile could muster, she dropped into the seat across from him.
"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped. "This was literally my last option."
Adrian didn't even look up this time. "Didn't say a word."
Arabella jabbed her fork into the fries. "Good. Keep it that way."
For the rest of the meal, she made little noises of disgust—complaining about the salt, about the grease, about how she *knew* she was going to need a detox facial later. Adrian ate silently, unbothered, until she finally slammed her fork down.
"You're not even going to apologize for ruining my outfit?"
Adrian swallowed calmly. "You bumped into me."
Arabella gasped. "I *never* bump into people. People bump into *me.*"
That was it. She stood abruptly, tray rattling in her hands. "I'm not doing this anymore. I'm going to the office. *Again.*"
—
Minutes later, she stormed into the housing office, dragging Adrian behind her like a bodyguard she didn't even want.
"This is harassment," Arabella declared dramatically, gesturing to him like he was the problem incarnate. "My personal space has been violated. My designer clothes destroyed. And I demand a proper roommate. Preferably someone who isn't six-foot-two and impossible to avoid."
The woman at the desk gave her the same tired look she'd given on day one. "Like I told you before, all the rooms are full."
Arabella slammed her hands on the counter. "Check again. You must have missed the room labeled *'Bougie Princess Quarters.'*"
Adrian stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the wall. "She's serious. Better double check."
The woman sighed, typing half-heartedly. "Nope. Nothing available. You'll have to make do."
Arabella spun on Adrian. "This is all your fault."
He blinked. "How?"
"You're too calm! If you hated this as much as me, we'd be in a penthouse by now!"
He gave her a small, infuriating smirk. "Maybe I don't mind."
Arabella nearly combusted.
—
By the time she made it to her afternoon class, she was still fuming. She slid into her seat, muttering about "fashion homicide" and "campus injustice." But her irritation doubled when the professor began explaining their first project.
"This will be a long-term group assignment," he announced. "Pairs of two. You'll be expected to work closely outside of class."
Arabella perked up. *Perfect. This is my moment. I'll partner with someone stylish, someone who appreciates quality.*
But before she could so much as flutter her lashes at anyone, the professor glanced down at his sheet.
"Arabella Montgomery and Adrian Hale—you two live in the same housing, correct?"
Arabella's stomach dropped.
Adrian didn't look up from his notebook.
"Convenient," the professor said cheerfully. "You'll make a great team."
Arabella slammed her palm on the desk. "Excuse me?!"
Half the class turned to stare. Adrian leaned back in his chair, finally glancing over at her. His blue eyes were calm, almost amused.
Arabella narrowed hers, seething.
This wasn't just inconvenient. This was *personal sabotage.*