Page 6 of A Deal with my Bully Roommate

"I looked over your analysis on the commerce clause," Harper says, sliding a legal pad toward me. Her fingers linger on the paper for a second longer than necessary. "Your interpretation is... begrudgingly valid. You caught a nuance that I actually missed."

I look at the pad, then up at her. She’s tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, her blue eyes unusually focused on mine. "A compliment, Harper? Careful. That’s very uncharacteristic of you. If I didn't know better, I’d think you were actually starting to respect the 'charity case.'"

Harper doesn't snap back with a sharp-tongued retort. Instead, she holds my gaze, her expression unreadable. " Fighting you is one thing, Avery, but ignoring the way your mind works is just... difficult. You’re not #1 in class for no reason."

The room feels suddenly smaller. I can hear the steady rhythm of her breathing, and for a moment, the legal notes between us feel like the least important thing in the world. The tension is thick, a heavy, velvet weight that makes wonder if she’s saying these things because of the deal.

“I thought you wanted to be #1. Weren’t you always trying to be better than me in high school? That’s why you stole my thesis.” It’s accusing, and she knows it.

Harper doesn’t say anything, retuning her gaze to the notes.

“I don’t like losing,” she admits.

Before she can explain, her phone begins vibrating on the desk.

I read the caller ID, which says Father.

Harper’s entire demeanor shifts. She grabs the phone with a frantic sort of energy.

"I—I have to take this," she says, her voice regaining its brittle edge. " I’ll be right back."

She ducks into the hallway, but in her haste, she doesn't fully click the door shut. I stay seated, trying to focus on the case notes, but the sound of a booming, distorted voice pulls my attention.

I stand up and move toward the door; driven by a curiosity I can't quite suppress. Through the crack, I see Harper leaning against the cold corridor wall. She has the phone on speaker, holding it out in front of her like it’s a ticking bomb. I expect to hear the warm, polished tones of a proud wealthy father, but I hear an angry man instead.

"I just saw the mid-semester rankings, Harper," a voice snarls, sounding like gravel being ground into glass. "You’re sitting at number two. Again. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is for me?"

"Father, I’m working as hard as I can," Harper’s voice is a whisper. "The girl I told you about, Avery—she’s just..."

"I don't care about this girl! She’s a nobody. You have every advantage, yet you’re letting a scholarship student make a fool of our name. You're at a 3.8, Harper. A 3.8 is for people who want to work in middle management," the voice snarls, loud enough for me to hear every syllable. "I am not paying six figures a year for you to be 'above average.' If you don't secure the Sterling merger by Christmas, your mother and I have already decided to pull your tuition. You'll come home, you'll marry Marcus, and you'll be the asset we raised you to be. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Father," Harper’s voice is a ghost of itself. Small. Hollow.

"Don't 'Yes, Father' me. Fix it. Or don't bother coming home for the holidays."

The line clicks dead.

Harper doesn't move. She stares at the phone, her shoulders shaking. I see her struggling to breathe, closing her eyes as she clutches her phone against her chest. She doesn't have the energy left for a mask. Her eyes are glassy, her breathing shallow and hitched.

When she finally turns to head back into the room, she finds me standing in the doorway. She freezes, her face draining of color as she realizes I’ve heard the truth behind the "Queen Bee" facade.

“I…didn’t plan to listen,” I cut in. “I heard someone shouting and—” I clear my throat, not wanting to admit I eavesdropped.

"He's right, you know," she says, her voice breaking as the mask finally shatters. She looks down at her trembling hands. "I'm just an investment to them. If I don't pay off, they'll just... sell the stock. I spent my whole life being a monster so I wouldn't have to be a victim, but it doesn't matter. I'm still in the cage."

She doesn't cry, but the look in her eyes is worse. It’s the look of someone who has realized their own worth is tied to a GPA.

I get it now, the reason she’s always so competitive, so bitter, so fragile. The anger I’ve carried for her for years feels like it’s dissolving, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. I don't see the girl who spilled coffee on my notes or the girl who tried to steal my thesis. I see a girl who has been screaming for help from inside a gilded cage, and I'm the only one who can hear her.

"I spent my life thinking you were just a spoiled brat who wanted everything,” I say. “But you’re just desperate to survive. My mom and I... we’re poor. We’ve always been poor. But at least when I go home, she loves me because I’m her daughter, not because I’m #1 in the class. She doesn't treat me like a business deal."

Harper looks at me, her blue eyes searching mine, a raw, aching vulnerability between us that feels more intimate than the sitcom or the study session.

"You're lucky, then," she whispers.

The air between us vibrates with a new kind of tension—one that isn't about hate, but about two different kinds of survival.

"And he's wrong," I say, stepping closer. "You're not an asset, Harper. You're a person. You’re not defined by your GPA."