The car is too quiet.
Which is funny, considering I’ve spent the last four years begging for silence.

But this isn’t peace. It’s political. Controlled. Cold.

"You could’ve flown," my father says for the third time.

"I didn’t want a press escort down the jetway," I say, keeping my eyes on the window. "Or a fake-smiling intern trying to carry my laptop."

"You could’ve taken someone with you."

"I did," I mutter. "Wes counts."

Across from us in the SUV, Wes raises two fingers in lazy salute, one earbud dangling. He’s dressed like he missed a memo and doesn’t care, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess. He fits in everywhere. The opposite of me.

My dad exhales slowly. He thinks it’s subtle. It’s not.

“We’re just trying to keep you safe.”

“No,” I say. “You’re trying to keep me under control.”

That shuts him up.

Five minutes later, the SUV slows in front of Hawthorne University’s ivy-wrapped gate. Campus swarms with life—parents hauling boxes, freshmen taking selfies, upperclassmen pretending not to care.

I want this.

I want to belong here. On my own terms.

I want—just once—for something to be mine.

Wes slaps my shoulder as we get out. “Ready to be normal?”

“I was born ready to be normal.”

That’s a lie, obviously.

But I roll my suitcase toward the quad anyway, trying to ignore the way people are already looking. Whispering. Pointing.

A blonde girl gasps softly as I pass. “Is that—?”

“It’s Lucas Monroe,” another girl says, voice hushed and thrilled.

I flash them a grin. Easy. Casual. Just enough bite.

They giggle. One trots up, bold and lip-glossed.

“You wouldn’t happen to be single and new in town?”

I wink. “Only temporarily.”

She laughs, and I hand her my number. Why not? This is my moment. My freedom. My chance to finally live outside the bubble of press conferences and bulletproof glass.

Then I hit the front desk.

“Lucas Monroe,” I say, pushing my hair back and giving the RA my best charming-hell-out-of-you smile.

She finds my name on the list, chirps, “Oh! Suite 4B. You’re all set. Your roommate already checked in.”

I blink.

“My what?”

“Roommate,” she says again, pointing down the hall. “You’ll love her. Eliana Rae. Very polite.”

Her.

No. No, no, no, no.

“I requested single housing,” I say. “That was approved. Personally. Signed off on.”

She shrugs like my world hasn’t just cracked open. “Things shift. Someone probably reassigned you.”

I reel.

This is the one thing I asked for.

One.

Wes whistles low behind me. “You okay, golden boy?”

No. No I’m not.