CHAPTER 3: HOSTILE TAKEOVER

A thin, persistent whine from a cheap fan was the only sound that pierced the cold silence of the dorm room. The air had a metallic tang of unspoken hostility. Rhys sat at his desk, his back to Cael's half of the room, the scent of his own ink and paper a comfort against the sterile smell of Cael's laundry detergent. The battle lines, once imaginary, had become starkly real.

It was in the details. The way Cael's side of the room, once a blank canvas, had become a fortress of order. His sports bag, a black monolith of leather and webbing, was no longer on his bed but now rested on the floor, its bulk encroaching on the narrow space between their desks. The closet door on Rhys's side wouldn't close completely, a stubborn, inch-wide gap revealing a row of Cael's perfectly pressed shirts taking up more than their share of space. The air itself had become an extension of Cael's will; the thermostat was always a frigid sixty-eight degrees, a temperature that made Rhys's hands ache and his teeth chatter, but which Cael seemed to exist in effortlessly.

One night, Rhys came back from a long protest meeting, his voice raw from chanting. He threw his jacket onto his bed and went to flip on the main overhead light, a small act of reclamation in a space that no longer felt like his. A voice, a low and steady rumble from the other side of the room, stopped him.

"Leave the light off," Cael said, his voice flat. He was on his bed, his phone held above his face, his expression hidden in the dim glow.

Rhys's hand froze mid-air. "I'm not going to sit here in the dark."

"I am," Cael replied, not looking up. "My eyes are already tired from practice."

Rhys's jaw tightened. "I don't care about your eyes. It's a dorm room, not a sensory deprivation tank." He moved to flip the switch again.

The light flicked on, harsh and yellow. Cael didn't flinch. He just lowered his phone, his eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on Rhys. The sound of a key chain jingled. Cael reached over to his desk, picked up the extension cord, and with a swift, silent motion, unplugged Rhys's desk lamp. The sudden darkness was absolute, a void in the small space.

Rhys's breath hitched in his throat. He stared at Cael, who hadn't moved a muscle. "What are you doing?" Rhys's voice was a low, shaky whisper.

"Equalizing the light," Cael said, his voice a quiet, final period. He reached into his pocket and a small, mechanical whirring sound filled the air. He pulled out a small black remote and clicked a button. The room suddenly filled with the quiet, persistent drone of the fan, but this time, the air felt colder, sharper, a cold front moving in on Rhys, a suffocating presence that was all his roommate's. Rhys was trapped in a box that was slowly shrinking, and he had no idea how to fight back.

***

A low hum of a hundred restless bodies filled the lecture hall. Rhys sat toward the back, his laptop open, the screen a stark white canvas waiting for his professor's first assignment. He glanced over his shoulder. The stadium lights outside the enormous windows were just coming on, a pale wash of artificial sun in the fading daylight. Caelen Holt would be out there, on the practice field, a king in his own kingdom. The thought made a familiar knot of anger tighten in Rhys's gut.

The door to the front of the hall creaked open. The room went quiet. Professor Anya Sharma, a woman with a no-nonsense bun and a gaze that could peel back layers, walked to the podium. She was a legend on campus, a political theorist who didn't tolerate easy answers.

"Welcome, class," she said, her voice clear and cutting through the last vestiges of chatter. "We will begin our work with an exercise in forced collaboration. You will be partnered with a student you have never worked with before. You will not have a choice."

A low murmur rippled through the hall. Rhys felt a flicker of annoyance. He worked alone, or with his trusted team. Forced collaboration was a pointless exercise. He began to mentally run through the names of his classmates, trying to predict a potential partner.

Professor Sharma pulled up a slide on the massive screen behind her. A list of names appeared. Rhys's eyes scanned the list, his stomach tightening with each row. He found his name, then read the one next to it. Rhys Thorne and Caelen Holt. The name was a punch to the jaw, a brutal, impossible joke.

He looked over his shoulder, scanning the sea of faces. He found Cael at the back, just as the quarterback's head snapped up, his gaze meeting Rhys's from across the crowded room. There was a brief flash of shock in Cael's eyes, a rare crack in the perfect mask he wore, before it was slammed back into place.

Professor Sharma's voice, a cold, hard stone, dropped into the silent hall. "You will be working together on a case study. The topic will be decided after you all review the case file. You will both be graded on every part of the assignment." Her gaze seemed to land on them both, though they were at opposite ends of the room. "The success of your partnership will determine the success of your final grade. Now, pick up your files at the front of the room. Your work begins now."

Rhys's hands clenched under the desk. A feeling of dread, cold and heavy, settled over him. He had been planning his protest against the Holt family for months, but now, he would be forced to work with the enemy. A new kind of battleground had been opened, and this one was far more complicated than a messy dorm room.

***

Cael stalked through the crowded lecture hall, the eyes of the students like gnats on his skin. He didn't bother with a friendly greeting or a handshake. He simply stopped in front of Rhys's desk, his immense frame a looming presence over the smaller man. He dropped the case file on the desktop, the pages rustling with a dry, papery sound. The file was thin, a testament to how little Cael cared about the project.

Rhys's gaze followed the file. He didn't look up at Cael. He simply reached out and pulled the folder closer to him. He opened it, his eyes scanning the first page. The file was a case study on a small-town political campaign, detailing a complex web of local politics and corporate interests.

"Looks like we're on the same side for once," Rhys said, a thin, cutting smile on his lips. "We both hate pointless bureaucracy."

Cael's hands were on his hips, his posture a solid wall of indifference. "I don't hate anything," he said, his voice flat. "I just want to get this done." He watched as Rhys flipped through the pages, his expression a mix of analytical focus and simmering contempt. "Look, this is a class project. It has nothing to do with. your personal crusade."

Rhys finally looked up, his blue eyes sharp and unwavering. "Everything has to do with my personal crusade, Holt. It's what drives me." He held up a page from the file, a small, black-and-white photograph of a rural community. "Look at this. This is the kind of place your family goes in and destroys. They take a small, peaceful town and turn it into a sterile, concrete jungle. It's a disgrace."

Cael's gaze flicked to the photograph, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He said nothing. He simply reached into his bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen.

"I'll do the research," Cael said, his voice low and firm. "You can write the paper. We'll meet up once a week to review progress. We don't have to talk."

Rhys slammed the folder shut, the sound a sharp crack that cut through the low chatter of the lecture hall. "And what's the point of that, Holt? If we're not going to talk, we might as well not be partners. We're supposed to collaborate."

Cael took a step closer to the desk, his presence now a physical force. "Collaboration means getting a good grade," he said, his voice a low, cold whisper. "Not listening to a lecture on your political agenda." He bent down, his massive frame a shadow over Rhys's smaller one. The scent of Cael's cologne-something cool and expensive, like mint and expensive aftershave-filled the air.

"Just get the work done, Thorne," Cael said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He straightened up and walked away, a silent, imposing figure in a crowded room.

Rhys watched him go, his hands clenched into fists under the desk. He felt a wave of frustration, so hot it was a physical burn. He was a man who thrived on debate and open conflict. But Cael wasn't interested in fighting. He was interested in winning. And in this new, silent war, Rhys felt like he had already lost the first battle.

***

Cael walked away, the rustle of papers behind him a small, insignificant sound. The fury on Thorne's face was almost comical. He had a fire in his eyes that Cael hadn't seen in years, not since before his own ambition had been surgically removed and replaced with compliance. The man was so transparent. So easy to read. And so easy to manipulate.

The assignment was a joke. It was the kind of busywork his father's underlings dealt with on a daily basis. He could have a team of researchers and lawyers tear the case apart in a single afternoon. But he wasn't here for his father. He was here to get his grades, to get on the field, and to get through this semester. Rhys Thorne was...