Chapter 1: Unwelcome Decorations
The door was heavier than I expected, or maybe my arms were just useless. I stood there, frozen in the frame, my suitcase a dead weight against my leg. This was it. My new room. My new life.
It smelled like lavender and sugar.
“Oh my god, you’re finally here!”
A whirlwind of dark curls and bright pink fabric detached itself from the far bed and shot toward me. I flinched. The girl—Lily, it had to be Lily—skidded to a halt, her eyes wide and sparkling. She didn’t hug me, which I was stupidly grateful for. Instead, she bounced on the balls of her feet, a stuffed octopus dangling from one hand.
“I’ve been waiting forever! I was starting to think you were a ghost, or that they’d given me a single, which would have been tragic, because who would I talk to?” Her words tumbled out in a single, breathless stream. “That’s your side! I didn’t touch it, I promise. Well, I vacuumed it. It was dusty. But that’s it!”
I followed her gesture. The left side of the room was bare, just a standard-issue desk, chair, and empty bed frame. The right side, her side, was a pastel explosion. Fairy lights webbed the wall, casting a soft glow over a mountain of plush animals. A pink canopy, lopsided but earnest, draped over her bed. My side looked sterile in comparison. A blank slate. A verdict.
“Lily, breathe. You’re going to scare her into the hallway.”
The voice came from the corridor. A woman leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. She was older, maybe twenty-four, with a calm, amused expression that seemed to take in everything about me in one glance. Her smile was a small, knowing curve.
“This is Claire,” Lily announced, as if presenting a marvel. “My Mommy. She helped me carry my stuff up. Claire, this is Danielle. Our new little roommate!”
The word little hit me in the sternum, a cold, sharp jab. My face flooded with heat. I managed a tight, microscopic nod. “Hi.”
Claire pushed off the wall and stepped inside. She had a quiet authority that filled the space without effort. “It’s nice to meet you, Danielle. Don’t mind Lily. Her enthusiasm doesn’t come with a volume knob.” She gave Lily a look that was fond but firm. “Did you ask before you vacuumed her floor?”
Lily’s face fell for a nanosecond. “I was just being helpful!”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. My own voice sounded foreign. “Thank you.”
“See?” Lily beamed, resurrected. She zoomed over to my barren bed and started unpacking my suitcase for me. I hadn’t moved from the doorway. “You need color! You can’t sleep in a desert. Claire, hand me that bag, the one with the spare blankets.”
Claire complied, her eyes still on me. I felt transparent, like all my paperwork—my classification, my scores, my anxiety assessments—was floating in the air around my head for her to read. “First year?” she asked, though she clearly already knew.
“Yes.”
“And you’re coming in after orientation week. That’s tough.”
It was a simple statement, but it held a universe of understanding. I’d missed the week of vague introductions, the slow drip-feed of information. I’d been tossed in the deep end, and everyone else already knew how to swim.
Lily was now spreading a soft, lilac-colored blanket over my thin mattress. “This is much better. And look!” She produced a small, worn rabbit from her own vast collection and placed it solemnly on my pillow. “Mr. Binks will guard your dreams. He’s very good at it.”
I stared at the rabbit. One ear was partially chewed. It was the kindest, most terrifying gesture I’d ever received. My throat closed up.
“Lily,” Claire said, her tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. “Let Danielle unpack her own things. She might want to arrange her own space.”
“But it’s bare,” Lily protested, clutching a bundle of my socks to her chest.
“She’ll fill it. In her own time.” Claire walked over and took the socks from Lily, placing them back in my open suitcase. “Come on, chaos gremlin. Let’s go get dinner. Danielle needs a minute to breathe.”
Lily deflated, but only slightly. “Okay, okay. But we’re eating in the dining hall, and you’re sitting with us tomorrow, right? No arguments! It’s mandatory friend time.”
I just nodded again, a useless puppet.
Claine guided Lily toward the door. As she passed me, she paused. Her voice dropped, just for me. “It’s a lot. It’s okay if it feels like a lot. Lily comes on strong, but her heart is absolutely in the right place. And this…” She glanced around the room, at the dividing line between chaos and emptiness. “This is a safe room. However you need it to be.”
Then they were gone, the echo of Lily’s chatter fading down the hall.
Silence rushed in, thick and heavy. I finally let go of the door handle, my fingers stiff. I walked to the center of the room, standing on the invisible line. On one side, a lived-in, loved-in nest. On the other, a waiting blankness.
I sat at my desk, the chair cool through my jeans. I pulled out a notebook and a pen, my hands shaking. The first page was already filled with my practiced, looping handwriting—sentences copied from a book, over and over, trying to make the letters perfect, trying to make them mean something. Trying to calm the static in my head.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth. My own universal truth was stamped on every piece of my ID, woven into the fabric of my new life: Classified: Little.
A designation. A destiny. A box I was supposed to fit into neatly, with a smile.
A soft knock at the open door made me jump. Lily poked her head back in, her expression uncharacteristically hesitant. “Sorry, I forgot to say. Tomorrow morning. Nine AM. In the Grand Hall. It’s the matching ceremony.” She saw the blood drain from my face, I felt it leave. Her smile turned reassuring, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s gonna be great. You’ll see. You’ll meet your Daddy, and everything… everything will make sense.”
She disappeared again.
The pen slipped from my fingers, rolling across the page and smearing the word fortune.
The ceremony. Tomorrow.
Your Daddy.
The words weren’t comforting. They were a sentence. A final, irrevocable verdict on who I was supposed to be. The static in my head crescendoed into a deafening roar, drowning out the scent of lavender, the glow of the fairy lights, the silent judgment of the stuffed rabbit on my bed.
I was here. There was no going back.
And in nine hours, a stranger would walk toward me, claim a piece of paper with my name on it, and own a fundamental piece of my identity. I had nothing to give him but my fear, and a handwriting sample that proved I could follow instructions.
I put my head down on the cool wood of the desk, and for the first time in this new, sugar-scented room, I cried.