Crush Theory

POV: Claire

I’m terrified.

Standing in front of the ivy-covered buildings, my stomach twisted into knots. Everything about this place screamed money: the green lawns dotted with groups of students chatting and laughing, the towering stone archways straight out of a gothic fantasy, and the row of expensive cars parked like it was no big deal. Maybachs, Bugattis, Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces. It felt less like a school and more like somewhere a vampire would keep his collection.

Students were everywhere, greeting each other with hugs and confident smiles, dressed in designer clothing that only highlighted my own worn jeans and faded jacket. The whole scene felt like it was deliberately crafted to remind someone like me exactly how much I did not belong.

And I didn’t.

Taking a deep breath, I tightened my grip on my suitcase and headed for the administration building. Transferring schools my senior year felt reckless, even if this was supposedly the opportunity of a lifetime.

Ashcroft Academy had been founded nearly two centuries ago in England by some of the nation’s wealthiest families. Articles online bragged about alumni who became senators, CEOs, even presidents. It was basically the Oxford or Harvard of high school. That only made the dread in my chest worse and reminded me why I was here in the first place: a scholarship. My one chance to make something better of my life.

Inside, polished floors gleamed beneath massive chandeliers, reflecting back the school’s intimidating grandeur. A woman behind the counter eyed me skeptically as she handed over a stack of papers, a neatly folded uniform, and a key on a brass tag.

“You’ll be in Blair Hall,” she said smoothly, emphasizing the building’s name like it should mean something to me. “Room 212. Another scholarship student, Mia Laurent, will be your roommate.”

Scholarship student. The words echoed in my head, sending a crawl of discomfort up my spine. She said it like it was dirt, like the school had not bragged about producing “five thousand scholarship success stories” on its website. Yeah, I had googled that too.

For a school this prestigious and historic, you would think there would be more. Instead, it made me feel both lucky and exposed at the same time.

I nodded stiffly, muttered a quick thank you, and hurried out, grateful to escape her judgmental stare.

Blair Hall was crowded with arriving students; the hallway hummed with excited laughter, rolling suitcases, and the occasional shout as people reunited. I walked through the throng, clutching my suitcase closer, somehow feeling invisible and yet painfully aware of everything around me.

After a few anxious minutes of searching, I finally found Room 212. Pushing open the door, I saw a petite girl with vibrant curls already unpacking, her belongings neatly arranged on her bed. She turned, her warm smile instantly easing some of the tightness in my chest.

“Hey, you must be the new roommate!” she said cheerfully, crossing the small room to shake my hand. “I’m Mia.” Her accent was faint but charming.

“Hi. Claire.”

“Looks like we scholarship kids get to stick together, huh?”

“I guess we do.” I managed a smile, instantly grateful for how easy she was to talk to. I had spent the entire flight imagining having a roommate who hated me on sight.

The room itself was modest but cozy: two twin beds with faded pastel quilts, a pair of small wooden desks, and matching wardrobes. Mia had already decorated her side with colorful string lights and photos pinned neatly to a small corkboard.

“Where are you from? I’m from France,” she said, turning back to her suitcase.

“Florida,” I replied, still taking everything in. “Are you just starting here too?”

“No, I enrolled last year.” She adjusted a framed photo on her desk.

“So you had the room to yourself all year?”

Her smile dimmed for a second before she shook her head. “No, there was someone, but she dropped out. It’s good to have someone again. Makes the room feel less lonely.”

“Hmm,” I murmured, unsure what to say to that.

“So, what do you think about the school so far?” she asked, switching the subject quickly.

I let out a small laugh. “I’ve only seen the administration office and this room. Not sure that counts as ‘seeing the school.’”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll show you around,” she offered brightly. “There are so many things you’ll love about this place.”

I arched an eyebrow. “What about the things I won’t love?”

She shrugged lightly, her expression turning cautious.

I turned back to my suitcase and my stomach dropped. My canvas tote, the one with half my life stuffed inside, was missing.

“Did you move my other bag?” I asked.

Mia shook her head. “No. Maybe one of the porters grabbed it. They were carrying stuff into 210 a minute ago.”

Of course. First day at Ashcroft and my bag was already wandering off without me.

I hurried into the hallway and followed the sound of voices. My tote sat just inside the open doorway of Room 210, slumped against a designer suitcase like it had no right to be there. Relieved, I stepped in to grab it, only to freeze as I took in the single bed and the expensive belongings neatly arranged inside.

“Excuse me?” A voice sliced sharply through my confusion.

I straightened, my hand still on the tote.

“If you’re here for that,” she said, flicking a glance at my bag, “I assumed it was trash. I would never be caught dead carrying it.”

A girl stood in the doorway. She was tall and slender, her long, dark hair falling in sleek waves over her shoulders. Her features were sharp and striking, her blue eyes framed by immaculately shaped brows. She held herself with the kind of poised stillness that did not need words to say she owned the space. Her arms were folded, her irritation obvious on her flawlessly made-up face.

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing with clear disdain as she looked me up and down, taking in every inch of me. A faint sneer curled her glossed lips.

“You’re one of the scholarship kids, right?” Her voice dripped with contempt, pitched loud enough that several students passing by slowed down, their gazes sliding curiously between us.

She knew already? Was it tattooed on my forehead or something?

Heat flooded my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to come into your room. I was just getting my bag,” I managed, lifting the canvas tote a little.

Her gaze flicked to it, then back to my face, her lip curling. “That?” she said. “I figured it belonged to maintenance. I’d never be caught dead with a non-designer bag. I almost told them to throw it out.”

Laughter rippled from the doorway.

She straightened, looking around pointedly at the students now watching. “Just make sure this is your last mistake.”

Mortified, I ducked my head and hurried out, feeling dozens of invisible eyes burning into my back. I practically ran back to my room, heart pounding, humiliation and anger mixing inside me like something sour.

Mia looked up as I burst in. “You okay?”

I dropped my bag on my bed and tried to steady my breathing. “Who the hell is the girl next door?”

Mia’s expression shifted instantly from concern to understanding. “That’s Charlotte Kensington. Trust me, you don’t want her as an enemy.”

“Why?” I asked, sinking onto my mattress.

She hesitated, twisting a strand of her curls around her finger. “Charlotte’s family practically built this school. She’s untouchable. Everyone either wants to be her friend or is too scared not to be. Let’s just say, crossing her tends to make your life pretty miserable around here.”

I groaned softly, rubbing my temples. “Great. Day one and I’ve already made myself a target.”

“Hey, don’t worry too much,” Mia said, trying to sound reassuring. “Just stay under her radar. Maybe she’ll forget about it.”

“I’m not worried,” I lied. “I didn’t come here to tiptoe around someone just because her family donated a few buildings.”

“You’ve got courage, Claire, I’ll give you that.” Her mouth quirked. “Just be careful. Charlotte’s used to getting exactly what she wants.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She pushed herself up from the bed, her earlier excitement returning. “Come on. Let me show you around. It will be easier tomorrow if you already know where things are.”

Grateful for the distraction, I followed her back out into the corridor. As we walked, Mia pointed out classrooms, common areas, and the impressive library, sprinkling in quick stories and whispered comments about teachers and students. Eventually, we stopped in front of a grand wall lined with ornate plaques and framed portraits. The whole thing was designed to impress you into silence.

“This is the alumni wall,” she explained, her tone softening with a touch of awe. “Ashcroft’s pride and joy.”

She stepped closer to a more elaborate section made up of larger portraits in gilded frames. “These are the five founding families. Ellington, Kensington, Van Alen, Ashcroft, and Fairfax. They are practically royalty here.”

I studied the portraits, noting the stern expressions, sharp features, and unmistakable air of authority. My gaze caught on one man in particular. His eyes were so piercing it felt like he was staring straight through the glass and into me. A chill ran down my spine.

“Who is that?”

“Jeremiah Ellington,” Mia answered quietly. “His family is the most prestigious and influential among the founders.”

“Why?”

“His niece married into the Campbell family. Her son’s a pretty big deal. You’ve probably heard of Mason Campbell.”

I hesitated. “Maybe? The name sounds familiar.” I frowned. “So all the founders’ kids go here? No one ever thinks, I don’t know, of going somewhere else?”

She laughed. “One thing you should know about Ashcroft is that most of the kids you see here are legacies. Only a few are not.”

“Wow. I’ll never understand choosing to attend the same school as your parents.”

Mia smiled. “Everybody who goes here wants to end up on this wall. No matter who you are.”

I took in the display again, feeling a strange mix of intimidation and something that almost felt like ambition. “No pressure, right?”

She bumped my shoulder lightly. “None at all.”

We moved on and reached a wide bulletin board plastered with colorful flyers. A math club, a fencing team, a debate team, something called the Ashcroft Legacy Council that sounded like a fancy cult. As we moved further down the hall, Mia checked her phone with a small frown.

“Hey, Claire, I need to grab something from my friend really quickly. Stay here for a minute, okay?”

As she hurried off, I lingered in front of the bulletin board, pretending to study the colorful flyers even after I had read them twice. My eyes caught on a flyer for the photography club, decorated with moody black-and-white shots pinned beside it. I had taken photography as an elective back home. Maybe I liked the idea of hiding behind a camera and watching everyone else.

I was lost in my thoughts when a voice spoke beside me.

“Thinking of joining the drama club, or are you more into chess tournaments?”

I jumped and turned.

A boy stood there who looked like he had stepped off the cover of a fancy school brochure. His dark hair was tousled in that annoying way that looked both messy and perfect. His eyes were a warm amber-brown, framed by lashes that would have started a riot in any girls’ bathroom. His jawline was sharp, his skin smooth and sun-kissed, and he moved with a lazy kind of confidence that made me suddenly aware of how tightly I was gripping my schedule.

He wore fitted trousers, a navy sweater over a crisp white shirt, and spotless sneakers that probably cost more than my entire suitcase.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I said, surprised by how relaxed his presence made me feel despite all that perfection. “Any recommendations?”

“Drama is definitely entertaining, especially here,” he said, giving the board a casual glance. “But photography is an underrated choice. Great way to disappear behind the lens and watch everything without saying a word. Very Ashcroft of you.”

I smirked. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He shrugged, his mouth curving. “Depends on who you plan on photographing.”

“Do you recommend any clubs, or are you just a professional critic of bulletin boards?”

He chuckled. “Guilty. I like to hang around here when I’m bored. The flyers stay the same, but the people staring at them change every day.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you’re not actually trying to recruit me into drama club?”

“God, no.” He grinned. “I’d rather fake a stomach flu than audition.”

I laughed and held out my hand. “Claire Whitmore.”

His handshake was warm and soft, like he had never done a day of hard labor in his life. As he let go, I noticed how several students walking by either waved or stopped to say hi to him. Popular, then.

“Nice to meet you, Claire. First day?”

“Is it that obvious?” I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.

“Just a little,” he teased. “But don’t worry, we were all new once. You’ll figure it out. And if you need anything, ask me. I’m basically the unofficial welcoming committee.”

“Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. Some of the earlier anxiety in my chest loosened. Maybe this would not be as impossible as it felt this morning.

“Jordan!” Mia’s voice broke through the moment.

We both turned as she jogged toward us, slightly out of breath.

“Hey, Mia,” he said easily.

Her eyes flicked from him to me, and her brows shot up in this very obvious what-is-happening look.

“I should go,” he said, stepping back with one last smile in my direction. “I’ll see you around, Claire. Good luck with your first day tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I replied, watching him walk away. He greeted two more people before he even reached the end of the hall.

I looked back at Mia.

Her mouth was slightly open, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Do you know who that is?”