Page 3 of A Deal with my Bully Roommate

Harper stares at me, her blue eyes wide with shock. A strange, flickering spark passes through them—fear, yes, but something else. Something darker and more complex. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing. After a long, agonizing silence, she whispers the word that changes everything.

"Deal."

I smile, and for the first time since I stepped onto this campus, I feel like I can finally breathe. I didn’t think she’d agree to it so easily, but I guess Harper Price is a realist. She knows she’s in deep shut. I smile, shaking her slimy hand before I bark out my first command,

"Good. Now, get on the floor, Harper. I have a lot of laundry that needs folding."

CHAPTER 2

Harper

I smooth the fabric of a worn, grey cotton t-shirt, carefully lining up the seams before folding it into a neat square. It’s a mundane, mindless task, yet my hands are trembling so much I have to press them flat against the industrial-grade carpet of Dorm 111 to steady myself. It’s been five days since I became Avery’s slave, five days since I attempted to steal her thesis. I don’t know why I did it, but some deep, dark part of me does.

It’s always been like this with her—a competition, a race to the top, a need to prove, to be seen, to be acknowledged. Except, it’s not her acklowledgment that I seek, but my own.

The friction of the cheap polyester fibers is probably ruining the silk of my sage-green lounge pants, but I don’t move. I can’t. Avery is sitting at her desk—my desk, really, since it’s the one with the better light—and the silence between us is heavy enough to crush the ribs right out of my chest.

“I spent four years trying to make her feel small so I wouldn't have to admit how big she felt to me,” I think, the realization tasting like copper in the back of my throat. Avery doesn’t know the truth. She thinks I’m the rich, golden girl, but in truth, I’m hiding. My nature. My sexuality. My very inconvenient, very forbidden feelings for the scholarship student I bullied throughout high school.

I reach for a pair of her jeans, the denim rough against my pampered palms. Every time I tuck a sleeve or match a sock, I feel the burning sting of humiliation, but beneath that, there’s a secret, traitorous jolt of adrenaline. For days, I’ve been her shadow. I’ve carried her books across the quad while she walked five paces ahead of me, her head held high, looking every bit like the queen I used to pretend I was.

"You're slowing down, Harper," Avery says, her voice cutting through my thoughts like a blade. She doesn't even look away from her textbook. "Are the socks giving you trouble? Or are you just daydreaming about your wedding china again?"

I stiffen, my fingers digging into the denim. "I’m almost done, Avery. It turns out that when you actually own more than three outfits, laundry takes a minute."

Careful, I warn myself. I shouldn't push her. I bullied her in high school because she was the only thing I couldn’t control. Every time she looked at me with those sharp, observant eyes, I felt like she could see right through the expensive armor and the "Golden Child" act to the terrified, closeted girl underneath. My parents have my entire life mapped out like a corporate merger; I’m supposed to marry Marcus Sterling, a man who has the personality of a black hole, just to unite our families’ assets. I had to be perfect, pretty, get the best grades, and never, ever be second place. Avery upset the entire order.

At first, it was just the academic rivalry, but after I turned sixteen, I began to realize that my animosity ran deeper than grades. The tingle in my body when she passed by the way I felt alive when we argued, the competition to be #1- she was the only thing keeping me from losing myself completely. I was attracted to Avery, and that was very, very dangerous. My parents have no idea about my inclinations, and I don’t know how to tell them that I can’t marry Marcus. I try to be perfect in every other way, which is why I wanted to steal Avery’s thesis idea. But that one totally backfired.

"Is that a snap back?" Avery turns the chair slightly, her eyes raking over me with a cold, calculated indifference that makes my heart do a stupid, jagged little hop. "Careful. I still have that photo on my phone. One click and you’re back at the mansion picking out a veil for Marcus."

The mention of his name makes me want to vomit. I look down at the pile of clothes, my voice small. "It's not a snap back. It's an observation."

I lashed out at her for years because she was authentic. She didn't have to lie about who she was. The whole school knew she liked girls, and that had no consequences. I figured if I could make her as miserable as I was, maybe this weird, electric pull I felt toward her would finally die. But seeing her name on the housing list was the final blow; I knew living together would make my secret impossible to hide. I stole the thesis draft because I was drowning, panicked that the only thing connecting us—our academic rivalry—was slipping away because I couldn't focus.

"Good," she says, turning back to her work. "Because I need my chemistry notes organized by color-coded tabs when you're done with that. And I want them done by midnight."

I reach for an oversized flannel shirt, one that smells faintly of lavender detergent and her. The scent is intoxicating, making my head spin. "Is this a power trip, or are you just naturally this bossy?" I mutter.

"It’s a debt collection, Harper. After the way you treated me all those years, I should do worse. Keep folding. And don't forget, you're getting me coffee at six tomorrow morning."

I watch the back of her head, the way a stray dark curl has escaped her claw clip and is resting against the pale skin of her neck. It makes my heartbeat speed up. My annoying, traitorous heart that likes the one girl who hates me the most.

I hate that I’m here. I hate that I’m her 'slave.' But as I pick up the next shirt, I realize with a sickening jolt of clarity that I’d rather be on this floor, being tormented by Avery, than be anywhere else in the world. She thinks she’s punishing me, but she has no idea that being forced to be this close to her is a more exquisite, agonizing torture than any wedding Marcus could ever provide.

I tuck the last pair of socks together and reach for the chemistry binder, my mind already racing with the fear of the day the thirty days are up. What happens when she realizes she doesn't need me anymore?

The university cafeteria is a cathedral of glass, steel, and social judgment, and today, I am the main sacrificial offering.

I’m standing by a central table, my fingers white-knuckled around the edges of a plastic tray. I can feel the eyes of every person in my social circle boring into the back of my neck. These are the people I spent the last week leading—the elite, the wealthy, the untouchables. Now, they’re watching me wait on Avery like I’m her personal valet.

"I said a salad, Harper. Not a bowl of wilted lettuce with a side of disappointment," Avery says, her voice loud enough to carry to the next three tables. She doesn't even look up from the textbook she has spread out, claiming three times more space than she needs. She’s loving this—getting back at me.

I feel the heat creeping up my neck, a burning flush that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "The dressing is on the side, just like you asked. And the croutons are gluten-free."

"They look soggy," Avery counters, finally looking up. Her eyes are dark and dancing with a cruel, playful light. She’s enjoying this. She’s feeding off my public humiliation, and honestly? I can’t even blame her. I spent years making her eat lunch in the library because I told everyone she smelled like "poverty." Now, she’s making sure everyone sees me serving her. I pretend not to notice all the curious glances directed my way.

Across the room, I see Chloe and Sarah—two girls who have followed my lead since we were freshmen—whispering behind their hands. Their shock is palpable. The Queen Bee isn't just falling; she’s being demolished.