Chapter 1: Swipe Right for Disaster
Welcome to Stratton U – the academic hotspot where Instagram influencers and LinkedIn legends are forged in the fires of syllabi and caffeine overdoses. As non-traditional students, Sarah Hayes and Wendy Manson snagged the golden ticket into this collegiate wonderland, their acceptance DMs practically breaking the internet among their friend circles.
Registration day was a riot – credit cards swiped, dorm keys snatched, and then they plunged into the chaos of campus life. Sarah, scrolling through her feed, almost collided with a human tidal wave in the stairwell. Wendy, ever the curious cat, poked her head out, "What's the tea?"
The hallway had transformed into a live-action meme, a crowd gathered around what seemed to be a showdown. Through the sea of smartphones filming, Wendy caught the action – a girl's hand, swift as an unfollow, connected with a guy's cheek. The slap echoed like a notification chime, and the spectators erupted in emojis IRL.
"Evan, how's that for a status update?" someone heckled.
The name 'Evan' sent Sarah's heart into a buffering spiral. Wendy, sly grin in place, quipped, "Looks like someone's relationship status just changed to 'It's complicated.'"
But then, as if fate hit the refresh button, the crowd parted and there he was – Evan Parker, Mr. Campus Crush himself, his lips tinged with the aftermath of the slap, striding towards them with the swagger of a guy who's DMs were never dry. His wingman, a dude with a grin that could trend, followed.
Sarah and Evan's eyes met – hers wide like a glitch, his narrowed in a silent 'Do I know you?' She swiped left on the situation, turning on her heel and disappearing faster than a Snapchat streak.
Fingers trembling like a bad connection, Sarah couldn't shake the digital ghost of Evan Parker.
Wendy, catching up, threw a look at Sarah that read like a 'seen' message with no reply. They walked by the lake, Sarah clutching her books like a shield from the online world. It took Wendy nearly face-planting on a loose brick for Sarah to snap back to reality.
"You good?" Wendy, recovering her balance, grinned, "Almost took a dive into 'Lake Embarrassment'."
Sarah, forcing a smile, replied, "I'm good."
Wendy, fishing for gossip, ventured, "That guy back there... Evan. You know him?"
Sarah's smile was a well-crafted lie. "Never seen him before."
Wendy dropped it. She knew when to scroll past.
Meanwhile, Evan's memory cache finally refreshed. "Sarah Hayes," Cameron, his human AI-assistant, supplied, "Why's she here?"
Evan, his mind a carousel of unread messages about Sarah – the girl with a three-year crush on him, the heiress who once had more followers than sense – now rumored to be bankrupt. Her family's financial crash had trended more than any influencer meltdown.
Cameron was a live feed of the past, "Remember the 1000 roses? The VIP treatment at the hottest club? You cold-liked her, bro."
Evan, lighting a cigarette, was the unread notification in her history. "Shut up," he replied, smoke curling like a deleted post.
Cameron, all shrugs and smirks, knew when to log off, "Not sliding into her DMs, then?"
Evan's silence spoke volumes, his online persona never revealing the offline thoughts. In the world of modern love, some connections are just waiting for the right moment to go viral.Evan Parker's thumb lingered on his bottom lip, a ghost of a smile playing at the edges. His eyes, hooded and heavy, didn't give away a thing. Chase what? His unreadable expression said it all. They were done. Kaput. Another love story biting the dust in a blaze of unread texts and Instagram unfollows.
-
Sarah Hayes and Wendy Manson were scoping out the new digs at Stratton University. The place was fresh, barely three years old, but awkwardly sandwiched between the guys' and girls' dorms like some kind of collegiate Oreo. Tailored for the grown-up non-traditional crowd, it was a nod to the evolving social scene on campus.
The guy territory was staked out below the fourth floor, and the ladies claimed the high ground. Perfect setup, considering the non-traditional squad was a rare breed, and one building was plenty.
Wendy eyeballed the cramped four-bedroom with a mix of horror and disdain. "Shared bathrooms? Seriously?" She was a real estate queen with her own slice of heaven—a cozy 3000 square feet of solitude. This dorm life was a far cry from her usual.
Sarah, ever the optimist, claimed the south window bedroom and dropped her books like an anchor. "Look at the bright side, you've got wheels. Freedom to flee whenever you want."
"True that," Wendy conceded, snagging the bedroom across from Sarah. "But hey, diving into this communal chaos? It's like a fountain of youth."
Sarah cracked a smile. The rules here were chill compared to the underclassmen barracks. They were adults, for crying out loud, with one foot in the real world. The school got it and cut them some slack.
Two more roommates popped in—another mid-twenties soul like Wendy and a 21-year-old with a baby face running an online store. Introductions made, beds claimed, they bounced out into the wild blue yonder.
Freshman Orientation was on the horizon, but they had a couple of days of freedom left. Sarah and Wendy dipped out of uni life. Wendy's ride awaited at the north gate, and Sarah couldn't dodge the offer of a lift.
"You holed up in Old Town?" Wendy grilled as they hit the road.
"Yup," Sarah replied, nodding.
"Renting or...?" Wendy probed, nosy as a neighbor.
"Mine, all mine," Sarah said, her smile a secret.
Wendy's brow arched, "So, what, you're like some undercover heiress?"
Sarah just laughed, letting the question hang like a flirty text waiting for a reply.
If only the Old Town could cash in on the expropriation lottery, Sarah's fam would be golden. But luck was a fickle friend. Four years post-bankruptcy, and her dad still clung to that old house like a lifeline.
"Road's a nightmare ahead. Mind hopping out here?" Wendy grimaced at the impending traffic snarl.
Sarah was already unbuckling. "Works for me. Thanks for the ride."
"Pssh, anytime," Wendy dismissed with a wave.
Sarah ducked out, her goodbye a quick wave as Wendy's silver chariot peeled away. Turning on her heel, she plunged into the alley's familiar frenzy—trash bins holding court, cars jockeying for space, vendors squeezing out pedestrians, bikes strewn like confetti...
With a poker face, Sarah navigated the chaos. Four years had turned the bedlam into her normal.
Upstairs, post-shower, her phone buzzed—Ms. Greene, the agent, with a lead. "Sarah, lady luck's grinning at you. Interview's in Eastside New District. Straight shot."
Sarah, shimmying into fresh threads, shot back, "Cheers, Ms. Greene."
"Knock 'em dead, girl. It's showtime," Ms. Greene's voice boomed, a laugh in every word.
"Count on it."Sarah's thumbs danced over the screen of her phone, firing off a quick text to her bestie before slipping it back into the pocket of her effortlessly chic, distressed jeans. She strutted down the stairs of her apartment, the city's pulse thrumming beneath her feet as she crossed the divide from the hipster haven of the Eastside New District to the vintage charm of Old Town, with its cobblestone streets and artisanal coffee shops that reeked of freshly ground beans and unfulfilled writer dreams.
The address led her to a nondescript door with a bell that chimed like a whisper of secrets. She pressed it, the anticipation fizzling in her veins. The door creaked open, revealing a woman with a face etched in lines of disapproval and skepticism, her gray top as nondescript as the door.
"ChefMaid Solutions?" The woman scrutinized Sarah like she was a questionable swipe right.
"Yeah, that's me. Sarah with an 'h'," she replied, her smile all sugar and no spice.
Mrs. Margaret Clarkson—because of course, her name was as stiff as her posture—let Sarah in, eyeing her like she was a cat video that hadn't quite gone viral. "You're just a baby," she muttered, not unkindly.
Sarah, ever the professional, slipped off her kicks and slid into some house slippers, ready to play the part.
"How old are you, dear?" Mrs. Margaret's voice held the same curiosity as someone peering at a new hashtag trending for reasons unknown.
"Twenty-one," Sarah replied, feeling her age like a new Instagram filter—flattering but slightly deceptive.
Mrs. Margaret clucked her tongue but said nothing more. The times were changing, and even the rich had to keep up with the social media influencers and their avocado toast. "Wait here," she instructed before disappearing in search of the man of the house.
The decor was minimalist, the kind of place that screamed 'I'm too cool for decorations'. Sarah stood there, her mind scrolling through the possible scenarios, when a voice as deep and smooth as a well-aged whiskey poured over her.
"How old is she?" The voice was familiar, sending a notification of dread straight to her gut.
"Twenty-one? A student, I take it?" The voice was indifferent, and it pulled Sarah's gaze like a trending topic she couldn't ignore.
Then she saw him. Evan Parker. The human equivalent of a read message with no reply.
