Trap in his Chaos

I adjust the strap of my bag, glancing at the map photo I took at the entrance on my first day here which was yesterday. The sprawling campus of my new college is a maze.

The campus of Ridgecrest University looks like it belongs in a movie about ridiculously rich geniuses. Marble pillars, sprawling green lawns, and an intimidatingly modern library that smells like fresh ink and leather. Everything here screams money—old, generational money. The kind of wealth that doesn't just buy things, but commands respect and awe.

Getting into this place was a miracle. Not because I'm not smart—I worked my butt off to earn my scholarship—but because it felt so out of reach. This isn't a college for someone like me. It's for trust fund babies and future CEOs.

That's part of why I go to library —to escape. It's the one place on campus where no one judges you. It doesn't matter how much money you have or what you're wearing; the books don't care.

As I make my way to the library I notice Jackson the one Claire warns me about, at the library door talking to someone. Minding my own business I walk past him.

I push through the heavy doors of the library, clutching my coffee cup. The smell of old books instantly grounds me.

I'm here to find the reading material for my first assignment—a literature essay due in two weeks. I was already one week late to start college. The professor rattled off a list of books during orientation, and I'd barely managed to jot them down. The assignment feels daunting already, but I'm determined to make a good impression.

As I wander through the aisles, trying to navigate the library's confusing layout, my phone buzzes in my bag. I fumble to grab it, my coffee in one hand and my bag sliding off my shoulder. In my distracted state, I turn a corner—and collide into something solid.

No, not something. Someone.

The impact sends me stumbling, and my coffee cup tilts dangerously. Before I can stop it, the contents spill over him.

"Oh my god!" I gasp, my eyes widening in horror. "I'm so sorry!"

I look up, and my apology dies on my lips.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, and intimidatingly good-looking. He wasn't the kind of person you just saw—he was the kind you noticed. Dark, messy hair falls just over his eyes. Sharp jawline, dark eyes, and an air about him that screams don't mess with me. But right now, those piercing eyes are fixed on me, and they're anything but friendly.

He looks down at his now-stained white shirt, his expression unreadable. The silence stretches, and I feel the weight of it pressing on my chest.

"I—uh—let me clean that up," I stammer, fumbling for tissues in my bag.

"Don't bother," he says coldly, his voice low but cutting.

"I didn't mean to—"

"Of course you didn't," he interrupts, his gaze locking onto mine. "You just wander around, clueless, spilling things wherever you go?"

The accusation stings, and my cheeks flush. "It was an accident," I mumble, barely able to meet his eyes.

He takes a step closer, and I feel the heat radiating off him—whether it's from anger or something else, I can't tell. "Are you always this careless?"

"I said I'm sorry," I snap, the embarrassment finally giving way to irritation.

His lips twitch, but it's not a smile. It's something darker, sharper, like he knows something I don't. "Oh, you'll be sorry," he says, his tone almost amused.

I freeze, unsure how to respond. Before I can say anything, he steps back, giving me one look that sends a chill down my spine.

"You don't even recognize me, do you?" he says softly, almost to himself. Then, louder: "Oh, but you do. You just don't realize it yet."

And just like that, he turns on his heel with a sharpness that feels deliberate, like he's made a statement and has no interest in lingering to explain, leaving me standing there. His strides are confident, purposeful, and maddeningly graceful. I watch as he weaves through the aisles without a second glance, his broad shoulders cutting through the space like a force field. Even as he disappears around the corner, his presence lingers, etched into the space like a shadow I can't quite shake.

My eyes widened in horror as my gaze flicked to the chair.

The coffee hadn't just spilled on the guy—it had also landed on a jacket draped over the headrest of the chair which was next to him. Not just any jacket.

My stomach dropped recognising that jacket.

It belonged to Jackson. I did saw it with him yesterday and also witnessed Jackson in a heated fight in the cafeteria. My heart pounded as I darted a glance at the entrance where I had spotted him at the entrance a moment ago.

The idea of him seeing me near his ruined jacket made my stomach churn.

I have to get out of here. I practically sprinted out of the library avoiding jackson on the way.

As I reached the quiet hallway outside I try to make out the words the the guy i stumble into said.

"You don't even recognize me, do you?"

What does that even mean? Recognize him? From where? I don't know anyone here. Unless…

He is a cocky show off, rich, spoiled, and convinced the world exists solely to entertain them. Who is probably a self-appointed king of this campus. Could be one of those social media-famous guys? The type who's constantly on Instagram, flaunting their perfect lives with captions like Rise and grind or Work hard, play harder. Or maybe he's from one of those high-profile families whose names are plastered on buildings around here.

That would explain the attitude.

Still, I can't help but feel a prickle of unease. His words loop in my mind again.

"Oh, but you do. You just don't realize it yet."

Back in my dorm room, I set the book on my desk and sink into the creaky chair, staring at the blank Word document on my laptop. My literature essay isn't going to write itself, and I've already wasted too much mental energy on a stranger who probably won't even remember me by tomorrow.

But then I catch myself glancing at my phone, almost as if expecting a notification—some clue about who he is. I half consider searching for him online, but I don't even know his name. And what would I even search for?Mister snobby Mcrichpants? Dark-haired jerk with coffee stains and a superiority complex?

I groan, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my temples. "Get it together, Stella," I mutter to myself.