The scholarship dorm was exactly what I'd expected—functional, forgettable, and definitely not featured in any promotional materials.
It sat on the edge of campus, a brick building that had seen better decades, let alone better days. My room was on the third floor, at the end of a hallway that smelled like industrial cleaner and someone's creative interpretation of cooking.
Room 314. Lucky number, maybe.
The room was small. Two twin beds with plain blue comforters, two desks that looked like they'd survived several generations of students, two small dressers, and a shared bathroom visible through an open door. Functional. Nothing more, nothing less.
My roommate hadn't arrived yet. Good. I needed a minute.
I dropped my bags and started unpacking with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to fit their life into small spaces. Clothes in the dresser. Books on the desk—Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Morrison, some beaten-up fantasy novels that were my guilty pleasure. My laptop, old but still functional, in pride of place. A photo of my family in a simple frame: Mom, Emma, and me at Emma's eighth-grade graduation, Dad's absence a ghost in the composition.
I set up my desk exactly how I liked it. Organized chaos that made sense to me. Pens in a cup that used to hold jelly. Notebooks stacked by subject. A small lamp I'd bought at a yard sale for three dollars.
This corner of the room, at least, was mine.
Through the window, I could see the main campus in the distance. The beautiful buildings glowing in the late afternoon sun, students walking paths lined with trees that probably had Latin names. The promised land, just out of reach.
I sat on my bed—mattress firm, sheets scratchy—and let myself have one moment of weakness.
"I made it, Dad," I whispered to the empty room. "I'm here. I'm actually here."
If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear his laugh, feel his hand ruffling my hair like he used to when I was little. *Proud of you, kiddo. Always proud of you.*
I let myself sit with it for exactly sixty seconds. Then I stood up, splashed water on my face in the tiny bathroom, and checked my phone.
Welcome assembly at seven. Mandatory for all freshmen.
Time to see what I'd gotten myself into.
---
The auditorium was obscene.
There was no other word for it. Velvet seats in deep crimson. A chandelier that looked like it belonged in a palace. Balcony seating. Actual balcony seating. In a university auditorium.
I found a seat near the back, because of course I did. The social hierarchy was already establishing itself in seating patterns—legacy students claiming the center sections like they owned them (which, let's be honest, their families probably did), while people like me gravitated to the periphery.
Invisible. That was the goal.
The auditorium filled quickly. Hundreds of students, all freshmen, all presumably having some version of the day I'd had. Though I suspected my version involved considerably less discussion of private islands.
A man in an expensive suit took the stage—President Blackwell himself, according to the murmurs around me. He launched into a speech about tradition, excellence, the proud history of Blackwell Imperial University, the responsibility of being part of such an esteemed institution.
Code for: remember your place, don't embarrass us, and if you're here on scholarship, work twice as hard to prove you deserve it.
I was mentally composing a sarcastic response to his platitudes when he introduced the student council.
"And now, I'd like to introduce your Student Body President, who needs no introduction to those of you from families who've been part of the Blackwell community..."
A ripple went through the crowd. Actual anticipation.
"Alexander Wolfe."
The reaction was immediate. Whispers, shifted positions for better views, the kind of attention usually reserved for celebrities.
He walked onto the stage, and even from my seat in the back, I understood.
Tall—easily over six feet. Dark hair styled with the kind of casual perfection that suggested it wasn't casual at all. A suit that fit him like it had been constructed around his body, because it probably had been. But it was the way he moved that really caught attention—absolute confidence, every step deliberate, like he'd never questioned his right to occupy any space he entered.
He took the microphone with a smile that was probably engineered to be charming. It worked.
"Thank you, President Blackwell." His voice was smooth, cultured, the kind of voice that had been trained for public speaking. "For those of you I haven't met yet, welcome to Blackwell. You're joining a community built on excellence, innovation, and the belief that we can change the world."
I barely suppressed an eye roll.
"As your Student Body President, my door is always open. We're all in this together, regardless of background or circumstance. Blackwell is about merit, about the best and brightest coming together to push boundaries and exceed expectations."
Pretty words. Carefully chosen pretty words that probably played well with the donors while meaning absolutely nothing.
But I watched the crowd eat it up. Girls sighing, guys nodding approvingly, everyone buying into the fantasy he was selling.
He was good. I'd give him that.
"I look forward to working with all of you to make this year—"
The back doors of the auditorium slammed open.
Every head turned.
Another guy strode down the aisle, and for a second, my brain short-circuited because he looked exactly like the one on stage. Same height, same face, same dark hair. But that's where the similarities ended.
This one wore a leather jacket over a black t-shirt and jeans that had seen actual wear. His hair was messy, like he'd maybe run his hands through it once and called it good. He moved with a different kind of confidence—not calculated, but raw. Dangerous.
He didn't acknowledge the stares, didn't apologize for interrupting, just walked down the center aisle with the air of someone who'd never been told no and wouldn't listen if he was.
His eyes swept the auditorium as he walked, and for a fraction of a second, his gaze passed over my section. I don't know why, but I felt the impact of it like a physical thing. Ice-blue eyes that seemed to see through the bullshit to whatever truth lay underneath.
Then he was past, pushing through a side door and disappearing without a word.
The whispers erupted.
"That's the other Wolfe twin."
"Identical, but like, opposite."
"Ash Wolfe. He's insane."
"Hot though."
"Dangerous hot. Heard he sent someone to the hospital last year."
"His family paid it off. They always do."
"Alex is perfect. Ash is a disaster."
I turned to look at the stage, where Alexander—Alex—had paused mid-sentence. Something flickered across his face too quickly to read before his practiced smile returned.
"My apologies for the interruption. As I was saying..."
But I was barely listening anymore. My mind was cataloging what I'd just learned.
The Wolfe twins. Identical in appearance, opposite in everything else. One was perfect—student body president, polished, powerful in acceptable ways. The other was chaos—dangerous, unpredictable, powerful in ways that made people nervous.
And apparently, their family was rich enough and connected enough that normal rules didn't apply.
People to avoid. Definitely people to avoid.
I made a mental note: Stay away from anyone named Wolfe.
---
By the time I got back to my dorm, my roommate had arrived.
The explosion of art supplies across half the room was my first clue. Sketchbooks, paint tubes, brushes in various states of cleanliness, and what appeared to be a half-finished sculpture made of wire and fabric.
The girl from orientation—Maya—looked up from where she was organizing her desk and grinned.
"Hey, roomie."
"Hey." I managed a tired smile. "I see you've made yourself at home."
"Sorry, I'm a chaos artist. Literally." She gestured at the controlled mess. "I can keep it on my side, promise."
"It's fine. Better than boring."
"Scholarship?" she asked, even though we both knew the answer.
"Scholarship," I confirmed.
She nodded, understanding passing between us. No need to elaborate.
I moved to my window, looking out at the campus lit up against the darkening sky. Golden light spilled from windows, casting long shadows across manicured lawns. Somewhere out there, in one of those beautiful buildings, students who'd never worried about money were probably planning their weekends at their second homes.
And here I was, in my tiny room with my secondhand everything, trying to convince myself I could survive four years in a world that wasn't built for people like me.
"You okay?" Maya's voice was gentle.
"Yeah." I turned to her, forcing brightness I didn't quite feel. "Just processing. It's a lot."
"Tell me about it. I spent the whole day feeling like I was going to accidentally break something expensive just by existing."
I laughed, surprising myself. "Same."
We talked for a while longer—safe subjects, getting-to-know-you basics. She was an art major, first generation college student, her parents owned a small restaurant. Her dreams were big, her means were small, and she was determined to make it work.
I liked her immediately.
Eventually, she retreated to her side of the room to sketch, and I sat by my window, my journal open on my lap. Writing helped, always had.
*Day One,* I wrote. *Survived orientation, explored campus, attended mandatory assembly. Made a roommate who might actually be cool. Saw the campus kings in their natural habitat.*
I paused, pen hovering.
*This place is beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Like a gilded cage made of marble and money and expectations I'm not sure I can meet. I saw them today—the Wolfe twins. Alexander, who looks like he was carved from marble and ambition, all polish and perfection. And Ashton, who looks like he was forged in fire and rebellion, all edges and danger.*
*I made myself a promise: stay invisible, stay focused, stay away from people like them. The powerful ones, the dangerous ones, the ones who could destroy me without even trying.*
*Four years. Just four years. I can survive anything for four years.*
I looked out at the campus one more time, at the beautiful buildings hiding god knows what kind of drama and politics and danger.
*I had no idea how wrong I was.*
I closed my journal, turned off my light, and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin. Classes, studying, proving I deserved to be here.
Stay invisible, Stella. Stay smart. Stay alive.
It was a good plan.
It lasted exactly one day.