Xo, Bridget

Bridget’s POV ~

"Ugh, I'm late again," I muttered, heels clacking like a death sentence as I bolted down the hallway of St. Devana's.

Final year. St. Devana's University. AKA the bougiest, most aesthetic campus in all of Manhattan - tucked in a sleek, overpriced corner of the city where old money mingles with influencer vibes. Think sun-drenched courtyards, glass-walled libraries, rooftop cafés named Chapter & Chai, and classrooms that look like someone said, "Pinterest, but make it Ivy League."

This place is dripping in prestige. Our alumni? CEOs, nepo babies, and ex-child actors turned indie film directors. The vibe? Neutral tones, quiet luxury, everyone dressed like they have paparazzi lurking. Film cameras in one hand, Prada tote in the other. And the professors? Way too hot to be morally acceptable.

Here at St. Devana's, it's not just about the degree. It's the soft launch of your legacy. And me? I'm planning to graduate with straight A's, a sprinkle of scandal, and just enough emotional damage to keep things interesting - all while strutting in stilettos.

I have big plans. After graduation, I'm launching my own glam brand - makeup, clothes, the whole Barbie-core fantasy. My parents, both divorce attorneys (ironically still married after 25 years), think it's "frivolous." But I don't give a fuck - I know what I want, and it's pink, powerful, and expensive.

I finally skidded up to Room 402 in Beaumont Hall. First class: Strategic Innovation and Entrepreneurial Leadership with Prof. Hart... a.k.a. The Dreamboat.

Matteo Hart is the blueprint. Early 30s. Tall. Sculpted. Stubbled jawline so sharp it could slice a croissant. Sapphire blue eyes, glasses he adjusts like he's in a cologne ad, and a wardrobe full of dark shirts that always leave the top two buttons undone - it's criminal, really. Every girl (and a few sneaky boys) crush on him, but I? I'm leading that fan club, baby.

I burst through the door - exactly ten minutes late.

"You're late, Miss Rose."

Uh-oh.

"It's just ten minutes, Prof."

"Isn't that a lot? And here I thought seniors were supposed to set an example."

I smirk. "Well, I am setting an example."

I fluttered my lashes. His lips twitched. A smile? Almost? Damn.

"Sit down."

I did.

But mentally? I was anywhere but this classroom. More specifically, I was fantasizing about him - black shirt today, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing. His fingers kept brushing through his dark hair, and I found myself wondering how it'd feel tugging on that hair while he's-

"Miss Rose?"

Snapped out of it. Barely.

"Yeah?"

"You seemed distracted. Something's on your mind?"

Just you. On my bed. But I say, "Nope. Just vibing."

He raised a brow, lips twitching again. Told me to pay attention and moved on. Not before hitting me with a long-ass stare that I definitely felt in my lower stomach.

Look - flirting is all I can do. He's technically off-limits. But I'm graduating. Sue me if I'm trying to make it interesting before I leave.

Forty-five minutes and one mental fanfic later, class finally ends. Or so I thought.

"One more thing before you all vanish," Prof. Hart announced. "Your final project this year is your business strategy portfolio. Impress me. Ask for help if you need it. Class dismissed."

Oh, hell.

I dashed after him.

"Prof?"

"Yes, Miss Rose?"

"I've got two pitch ideas. Do I combine them or keep them separate?"

"Whatever works for you."

And then he walked off. Cool. Guess I'll wing it. Again.

Whatever - girlbosses don't panic. I grabbed my Versace tote and strutted into the hallway, which was now swarming with people.

Time to find my dormmates-slash-soulmates - Tori and Neve. We live together in Beaumont Hall's top-floor suite - aka The Chaos Palace. Marble countertops, a closet we share like a holy altar, and a strictly enforced no-ugly-boys policy.

Let me introduce the crew real quick:

Tori West, a.k.a. The Chaotic Hype Beast. Fashion major, meme dealer, and chaos in heels. She's the friend who yells "DO IT" before you even finish your sentence. Her phone? Full of screenshots and unhinged ideas.

Neve Sharma, a.k.a. The Soft-Spoken Savage. Journalism major, indie vibes, therapist-core. Looks like she listens to Mitski and cries under fairy lights, but she's emotionally lethal. She will paragraph you into oblivion.

And me?

Bridget Rose, a.k.a. The Barbie-core Bombshell. Business major. Glam, romantic, dangerously flirty. I walk in five minutes late and still ace the test and leave with the TA's number. Catch me winning the hot girl walk Olympics without even trying.

Together we're 'The Bratz Pack'. And yes, we know how iconic that sounds.

I pulled out my phone and dropped a message in our group chat:

"Send nudes ♡" (Tori's idea, obviously.)

Me: Meet me at the café.

Tori: Aight.

Neve: Can't, got class :(

Me: Boo.

Typical Neve.

And then-

"Hey, Bratz Barbie."

I didn't even need to look. That voice belonged to one person.

"Fuck off, Jace."

He clutched his chest. "Ouch. That hurt."

I rolled my eyes. Here we go again.

Jace Knight, a.k.a. The Tattooed Bad Boy. Film major. Walking thirst trap. Flirty, smug, tanned, clean-shaven, sharp jawline, and way too pretty for his own good. Light brown eyes, devil's grin, tattoos that definitely shouldn't be legal on campus.

He's my favorite headache.

Frenemies? Sure.

Friends with benefits? Also yes.

Dating? Not in this economy.

I'm not built for commitment. Never been. Relationships are messy, and I like my life clean, sparkly, and free of broken hearts. Bratz Barbie doesn't chase Ken - she steps on him in platform heels.

"What now, Douchelord?"

"Party at my suite tonight. Don't ghost."

"What do I get in return?"

"You get a slice of this cake." He winked.

"Gross. Text me the time."

"Yes, milady."

He walked off with that smug strut.

Ugh. I hate him. (Not really.)

Anyway, time to caffeinate and debrief with Tori. Plot chaos, sip overpriced matcha, and maybe - just maybe - figure out these pitches.

𓆩♡𓆪

The second I stepped into Chapter & Chai, the whole place smelled like aesthetic overload - fresh croissants, overpriced lavender lattes, and the subtle stress of girls in claw clips finishing essays they procrastinated for three weeks.

Tori was already there, sprawled across our usual corner table like she owned the café. Headphones in. Pink-tinted sunglasses on. Outfit? Black corset top over a graphic tee, pleated skirt, leg warmers, chunky platform boots. Very chaotic baddie meets Pinterest rebellion.

"Bratz Barbie reporting for duty," I said, plopping into the seat across from her.

She looked up. "Omg finally. I was about to order without you and betray the sacred brunch oath."

"You've done worse," I sipped her drink before she could stop me. "What is this? Tastes like iced flower tears."

"It's rose matcha. Very romantic. Very soft-core delusion."

"Love that for you."

We ordered - me: one vanilla iced latte with extra sass, her: a croissant the size of my GPA anxiety. Then the real convo started.

"So," she leaned in, sunglasses still on indoors like the drama queen she is. "What's the tea?"

"The usual. I was late. Again. Prof. Hart lowkey scolded me. Highkey stared into my soul. I may or may not have mentally undressed him mid-lecture."

"Oh my GOD. Bridget. You are so brave."

"I know."

"He wore the black shirt again, didn't he?"

"Rolled. Up. Sleeves."

She gasped like I told her BTS was reuniting.

"I swear," I continued, "he could read me the terms and conditions and I'd still moan."

"Honestly same."

We cackled. A girl from another table glanced over, and I gave her a wink. Mind your business, babe.

Tori sipped her matcha. "So are you actually gonna do something or just keep daydreaming until graduation?"

"He's off limits."

"You're off limits."

"Okay but like morally."

"You flirted with a TA during an econ midterm."

"And I passed."

"Touché."

We paused to check our phones. Neve had texted.

Neve: I swear if you both are talking about Hart again, I'm blocking you.

Me: We would never.

Tori: Liar.

Me: Anyway. Party tonight. Jace's suite. Come in hot.

Neve: Ugh. Fine. I'll bring my pepper spray.

I looked up. "She's in."

Tori grinned. "We're gonna turn that suite into a runway. Who's your fit inspo tonight?"

"Somewhere between Euphoria extra and don't talk to me unless you're buying me tequila."

"Iconic."

We spent the next hour scrolling Pinterest for looks, dragging exes for sport, and stress-laughing about our respective projects we had no intention of starting anytime soon. Typical.

Then, as I was halfway through my almond croissant, I saw him. Jace. Again. Through the café window. He spotted me. Smirked. Texted.

Jace: Wear red tonight. You know it's my fav.

Me: I don't dress for you.

Jace: Sure. But you always look better when you do.

Tori (reading over my shoulder): "That man is the reason I need therapy."

"I know."

I locked my phone. Tonight was gonna be messy.

𓆩♡𓆪