Page 1 of A Deal with my Bully Roommate

CHAPTER 1

Avery

I thought the gates of this university would be my sanctuary, but instead, they just locked me in hell with my demon.

I’m standing in the doorway of Dorm 111, clutching the straps of my duffel bag until my knuckles turn white and the nylon bites into my palms. The air in the hallway behind me is a chaotic symphony of slamming doors, rattling luggage wheels, and the high-pitched squeals of freshmen meeting their roommates for the first time. It smells like industrial floor wax, nervous sweat, and new beginnings. But the second I step over this threshold, the atmosphere shifts. The temperature seems to drop ten degrees, and the oxygen suddenly feels much more expensive.

Harper Price is standing by the window.

My bully. My rival. My nemesis.

The girl who ruined my high school life is my roommate? The universe has a sick sense of humor.

As I blink repeatedly, the "Queen Bee" of Lincoln High crystallizes. She is framed by the late afternoon sun, whose composure has been hit by a wrecking ball. Her honey-blonde hair is perfectly polished, falling over the shoulders of a sage-green silk lounge set that probably costs more than my entire tuition for the semester. But her face—usually a fortress of curated arrogance—is a mask of pure, unadulterated panic. Her eyes widen, her pupils blowing out until they swallow the blue of her irises, and her grip tightens on the handle of her designer suitcase until her diamond rings flash in the light. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Or worse—me.

I feel a grim, dark satisfaction blooming in my chest. I want to make her uncomfortable. I spent four years of high school keeping my head down, grinding through every honors class until my brain felt like a bruised sponge, all just to earn the scholarship that would get me a thousand miles away from her. I had a plan. I was going to be the girl who studied in the quiet corners of the library, the girl who climbed the ranks of the Law Society, the girl who was finally, blissfully invisible. I thought that in a sea of twenty thousand students, the odds of crossing paths with my tormentor were astronomical.

I guess the university housing algorithm has a sick sense of irony. Or maybe I’m just cursed. Because nothing else explains why I’m roommates with my high school bully.

"You have got to be kidding me," Harper says. Her voice snaps back into that familiar, razor-sharp edge before the silence can even settle. The vulnerability I saw a moment ago is gone in a heartbeat, replaced by a practiced, condescending scoff. She straightens her posture, growing an inch taller as she stares me down. "I pay sixty thousand a year in tuition and they pair me with the scholarship girl? I guess the admissions office is really leaning into the 'charity' aesthetic this semester. Is this part of some new diversity outreach program for the underprivileged?"

"Trust me, Harper," I say, my voice flat and cold as I walk past her toward the only empty bed. My heart is thudding a rhythmic, angry beat against my ribs, but I refuse to let her see me tremble. "If I could trade you for a literal pile of trash, I’d do it in a heartbeat. At least the trash wouldn’t talk back, and it probably smells better than whatever overpriced perfume you’re drowning in."

She bristles, her jaw tightening. She marks her territory by slamming her leather suitcase onto the mattress of the bed closer to the window. "Listen carefully, Avery. I’m only going to say this once. This side of the room is mine. My clothes, my air, my space. Do not cross the invisible line in the middle of this floor. Don't touch my silk sheets, don't use my vanity, and for the love of God, don't let your 'struggle' rub off on my things. I have a reputation to maintain at this school, and being roommates with a charity case is already going to be a nightmare to spin to my friends."

I don't even look at her as I drop my duffel bag. I start unpacking my thrifted sweaters—the ones with the pilled wool and the faint scent of lavender detergent—and the memories of her cruelty start playing on a loop in my head. I remember tenth grade, when she "accidentally" tripped me in the cafeteria, sending my tray of mystery meat sliding across the floor while she laughed with her clique. I remember eleventh grade, when she whispered just loud enough for the whole hallway to hear that my mom only got her job at the hospital because they had a quota for "working-class pity cases."

But mostly, I remember the academic rivalry. Harper didn't just want to be the prettiest or the richest; she wanted to be the smartest. Every time I got an A+, she was there, lurking, using her private tutors and her family’s connections to try and claw her way past me. She hated that I was "smarter" than her without the silver spoon. She hated that no matter how hard she tried to bury me, I kept showing up on the Dean's List.

"You really haven't changed, have you?" I mutter, pulling a stack of worn textbooks from my bag. "Still the same insecure bully hiding behind a designer label. You think this is still Lincoln High? You think people here are going to care who your daddy is?"

Harper let out a dry, hollow laugh. "People always care who my father is, Avery. That’s how the world works. But I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand the weight of a legacy. You're just here to fill a seat. I'm here to build an empire."

I turn to face her then, my eyes locking onto hers. "An empire built on making other people miserable? That’s not a legacy, Harper. That’s a mental illness. You spent four years trying to break me and look where it got you. You’re trapped in a twelve-by-twelve box with the one person who knows exactly what kind of coward you are behind that makeup."

She flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of her eyelids. For a moment, the room is thick with a tension so heavy I can practically taste it—it tastes like copper and lightning. Her gaze drops to my hands, then snaps back to my face.

"Stay on your side, scholarship girl," she says, her voice trembling just a fraction. "And pray I don't decide to make your life as miserable here as it was back home."

"Bring it on, Harper," I whisper. "I’m not that quiet girl who just takes it anymore. You want a war? I’ve been in one with you since I was fourteen. I’m just getting started."

I turn back to my bed, my blood humming with a mixture of dread and a strange, terrifying rush of adrenaline. She thinks she’s still in control. She thinks she can still play her games. But she has no idea that this time, I’m not playing defense. I’m waiting for her to slip. And when she does, I’m going to be the one holding the match.

One week later, the air in the lecture hall is thick with the smell of expensive espresso and the quiet click-clack of a hundred MacBooks, but all I can feel is the phantom weight of Harper’s gaze burning into the back of my neck. We’re only seven days into the semester, and the "war" I promised her has already become a grueling marathon of psychological endurance.

I’m sitting in the front row of Introduction to Macroeconomics, my worn spiral notebook open and a cheap ballpoint pen poised over the page. I prefer writing by hand; it helps the information stick, and besides, I can’t afford the sleek, rose-gold laptop Harper currently has perched on her desk three rows back. I don’t have to turn around to know she’s there. I can hear her whispering to the girls flanking her—two clones in matching university pullovers who have spent the last forty minutes looking at me like I’m a particularly stubborn stain on the upholstery.

"Now, if we look at the shifts in the aggregate demand curve..." the professor drones on, but my focus is shattered when a crumpled piece of paper bounces off my shoulder and lands on my desk.

I don't open it. I don't have to. I know the handwriting: elegant, loopy, and venomous. I sweep it off the desk with the back of my hand, my jaw tight. I am here to learn. I am here to escape the life Harper thinks I belong in. I will not let her turn this classroom into a playground.

When the lecture finally ends, I move quickly, stuffing my bag with my textbooks. I want to be out of the door before the "clique" can corner me. I’m halfway down the aisle when a designer-clad arm bars my path.

"Going somewhere so fast, Avery? You didn't even say hi," Harper says, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. She’s leaning against a desk, a half-finished iced latte in her hand. Her friends are snickering behind her, their eyes raking over my oversized, pilled cardigan. "I noticed you were taking notes by hand today. How... vintage. Do you need me to donate my old iPad to your cause? My father says charity starts at home, and since we're practically family now..."

"I'm fine, Harper," I say, trying to push past her. "Some of us actually care about the material. I know that’s a foreign concept to someone whose greatest academic achievement was buying a new highlighter set."

The girls behind her gasp, but Harper just smiles—that sharp, predatory smile that used to make me want to hide in the girls' room and cry. Now, it just makes me want to scream.