THE ROOMMATE CONTRACT

The letter arrives on a Thursday morning, tucked under my dorm room door like a quiet death sentence.

At first, I think it’s another flyer about upcoming club fairs or volunteer hours or whatever else St. Augustine Academy uses to remind scholarship students like me that we must constantly “give back” for the privilege of simply existing here. But then I see the seal—deep blue, embossed, and official.

Financial Aid Office. Urgent Notice.

My heartbeat stutters.

No. No, no, no.

I drop my backpack on the floor, fingers trembling as I tear open the envelope. Paper scrapes my skin. The letter unfolds like a funeral announcement.

“Dear Miss Nara Adine,

Your scholarship is currently under review due to a procedural irregularity in your residency file.

Please report to the Administration Hall at 10:00 AM.”

Under review.

Irregularity.

Report immediately.

My stomach flips. It’s only 8:15 AM, and somehow I already feel late to my own execution.

I read it again. Then again. The words don’t change. My breathing gets shallow, too fast, too loud. For a moment, the dorm room tilts, like someone grabbed the entire building and gave it a violent shake.

This can’t be happening.

Not now. Not with midterms in three weeks. Not with Mom already working double shifts to cover the small fees that scholarships never actually include. Not with everything I’ve been building—grades, recommendations, a future—balanced on a single fragile thread.

I clutch the letter like it might dissolve in my hands.

The last line burns into my skull.

“Failure to attend may result in immediate suspension of scholarship benefits.”

I sit down on my bed. My legs don’t feel like they belong to me. The mattress dips and creaks under my weight—thin, old, and lumpy, because this is the old dorm, the scholarship dorm, the place where every sound reminds you that you’re “lucky” to be here at all.

Lucky.

Right.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to slow my breathing. My heart refuses to cooperate.

“Okay, Nara,” I whisper to myself. “Think. It’s probably a mistake. A file problem. A typo. They said ‘procedural irregularity,’ not ‘you’re kicked out.’”

But irregularity could mean anything. A missing paper. A messed-up housing form. A glitch in the system. Or—god—for a second, a horrible thought flashes through my mind.

What if it’s the video?

No. Impossible. That video was from years ago. A lifetime ago. It barely shows anything. And I’ve spent my entire adolescence pretending it never existed.

I shake my head. “Focus.”

But it’s hard to focus when your entire life feels like it’s being squeezed through a narrow pipe and you’re seconds from bursting.

I force myself to stand and grab my backpack. My hands keep shaking, and I drop my water bottle twice before it actually makes it inside. Great. Perfect. A disaster before breakfast. Classic Nara.

The hallway outside is already buzzing—students talking, laughing, comparing test scores, talking about debate team, fencing club, charity galas. All the beautiful, polished, privileged children of CEOs and royalty and biotech empires.

I push through them.

Nobody notices the scholarship girl today.

Nobody ever does.

Except when something goes wrong.

The Administration Hall is on the other side of campus—a massive marble building with columns so tall they look like they’re trying to touch heaven. A ridiculous design choice, but St. Augustine is full of those. Everything here is designed to remind you of your place.

I step inside.

The receptionist barely looks up. “Name?”

“Nara Adine,” I say, voice thin.

Her eyes flick to her screen. Then her expression shifts—just barely, but enough. A pinched frown. A lingering stare. Like I’m a problem she hoped would never show up.

“Wait in room three,” she says curtly.

Room three.

The room where scholarship students go for “evaluations.”

The room where juniors last year were told their aid wouldn’t be renewed.

The room everyone whispers about.

My throat tightens.

I walk down the hallway, each step echoing loudly. When I reach the door, I push it open slowly, half-expecting a firing squad.

Instead, I see two people:

Mrs. Lane from Financial Aid.

And Mr. Carrow, the housing director.

Both sitting. Both serious. Both looking at me like I’m a spreadsheet full of errors.

“Miss Adine,” Mrs. Lane says. “Sit.”

My knees almost give out, but I manage to sit upright.

“We’ve reviewed your residency documentation,” she begins. “There appears to be a discrepancy.”

My mouth goes dry. “A… discrepancy?”

“Yes.” She slides a folder across the table. My name is stamped in red. Irregularity. God. “You currently reside in Dorm Block C, correct?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“And you were assigned there at the start of the year?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve remained there since?”

I nod again, but slower.

“Unfortunately,” she continues, “a recent audit has revealed that scholarship students housed in Block C are out of compliance with the updated residency requirements.”

Updated? Updated when?

I try to steady my voice. “I—I wasn’t informed of any changes.”

Mr. Carrow clears his throat. “They were implemented last week.”

Last week.

One week.

And somehow, I’m already in trouble.

“We understand this wasn’t your fault,” he adds, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t care whether it was or not. “However, the administration requires all scholarship students to relocate to the Elite Dorms due to space reallocation.”

I blink.

“The Elite Dorms?”

I must’ve misheard.

“That’s correct,” he says. “Dorm Block A.”

My heart stops.

Block A is for legacy students, international royalty, billionaires’ kids.

Students who wear designer coats and laugh in languages I barely understand.

Students who could buy my entire neighborhood with their weekly allowance.

I shake my head. “There must be a mistake. Scholarship students don’t live in Block A.”

“They do now,” Mrs. Lane says smoothly. “Effective immediately.”

Immediately.

The word hits like a punch.

“But—but I can’t just move today,” I say, voice rising. “I have classes, assignments, I—I’m not prepa—”

“That won’t be a problem,” Mr. Carrow interrupts. “We’ve already reassigned your room.”

Already reassigned.

My pulse spikes. “What about my roommate? I haven’t even met—”

“You will,” he says. “When you arrive.”

Mrs. Lane taps the folder. “Please sign the relocation form. Failure to do so may result in… complications with your scholarship.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air.

Complications.

Meaning: lose the scholarship.

Meaning: lose everything.

I swallow hard, choking on panic. My hand moves on its own, picking up the pen. The paper blurs as I sign my name.

Mrs. Lane nods. “Room 407.”

“407,” I repeat numbly.

“In Dorm Block A.”

“In the Elite Dorms.”

“With your assigned roommate.”

I force a breath. “Who is my roommate?”

They exchange looks.

Not a good sign.

Very not good.

Finally, Mr. Carrow says:

“You’ll meet him when you get there.”

Him.

My heartbeat stutters again.

“Him?”

I repeat, voice cracking.

“That is correct. The Elite Dorms operate on co-ed pairing.”

My brain stops functioning.

Co-ed.

Paired with a boy.

A stranger.

A rich, elite, legacy-level boy.

Someone who probably thinks people like me are clutter.

I open my mouth, ready to argue, but Mrs. Lane cuts me off:

“This is the only available placement. Please be grateful we were able to secure continued housing for you at all.”

Grateful.

Of course.

My hands curl into fists, nails biting my palms.

A full minute of silence hangs between us.

Then Mrs. Lane dismisses me. “You may go pack your things. Report to Room 407 by noon.”

I stand on legs that barely hold me.

As I reach the door, Mr. Carrow adds casually, as if this will soften the blow:

“Oh—one more thing.”

I freeze.

“Your new roommate is… academically demanding. But talented.”

A strange pause.

“Don’t let him intimidate you.”

Something cold creeps up my spine.

I turn slowly. “Do I… know him?”

Their silence answers before their words do.

Mr. Carrow clears his throat.

“His name is—”

My heart hammers.

My breath lodges in my throat.

Time slows.

Please no. Please no. Anyone else. Anyone—

“—Alister Kane.”

The world narrows into a single, horrific realization:

I am moving into a room

with my worst enemy

the boy who humiliated me

the academy’s golden tyrant

my academic rival

the person I vowed to avoid at all costs.

Alister Kane.

My new roommate.

My vision goes white at the edges.

“Effective immediately,” Mrs. Lane repeats.

I steady myself against the door frame, fingers trembling.

I’m living with him.

This day just became the beginning of the end.

Or—God help me—the beginning of something much, much worse.