Olivia
The apology from Ethan Brooks was a tactical anomaly I couldn't process. It didn't fit any of my data points on him. He was supposed to be arrogant, flippant, and superficial. Apologies were not in his playbook. It left me feeling off-kilter, a sensation I despised.
Mia, of course, had a theory. "He's into you," she'd declared as we walked back to our dorm. "That was a classic 'I'm a jerk but I have a heart of gold' move. It's chapter three in every romance novel ever."
"This isn't a romance novel, Mia. This is a political campaign. It was a strategic move. He's trying to appear magnanimous, to win over my supporters."
"By admitting you were right? Terrible strategy," she'd countered. "Face it, Liv. You two have chemistry. The whole campus sees it."
I refused to believe it. The 'moment' on stage was a fluke, a combination of surprise and adrenaline. The apology was a calculated risk. My world was one of logic and order, and I would not let it be disrupted by something as illogical as… chemistry.
My resolve was tested the next afternoon when I received an email with the subject line: Urgent Meeting Regarding Presidential Candidacy. It was from the office of Dean Hayes, the Dean of Student Affairs. The email stated that both I and Ethan Brooks were required to attend. My stomach twisted. This was not good.
I arrived at the Dean's office at precisely 2:59 PM for our 3:00 PM meeting. Ethan was already there, lounging in one of the plush chairs in the waiting area, looking completely unbothered. He was scrolling through his phone, a lazy smile on his face. Seeing him so relaxed only amplified my own anxiety.
"Brooks," I said, my tone clipped.
He looked up, and his smile widened into a proper grin. "Chen. Fancy meeting you here. To what do we owe the honor?"
"I have a feeling we're about to find out," I said, taking a seat as far away from him as possible.
We were called in a few minutes later. Dean Hayes was a formidable woman in her late fifties with sharp eyes that seemed to see right through you. She sat behind a large, imposing desk, her hands steepled. Professor Albright, the debate moderator, sat in a chair beside her, looking deeply uncomfortable.
"Mr. Brooks, Ms. Chen, please have a seat," the Dean said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
We sat. The silence in the room was heavy.
"I'll be blunt," Dean Hayes began, her gaze flicking between the two of us. "Your debate was a disgrace."
I flinched as if struck. Ethan's nonchalant posture stiffened slightly.
"It was not a debate," she continued. "It was a spectacle. It was unprofessional, undignified, and frankly, it made this university look foolish. The video of the… incident… has been viewed over fifty-thousand times. We have alumni calling, asking what kind of circus we're running here."
I opened my mouth to defend myself, to explain that I had tried to focus on policy, but the Dean held up a hand, silencing me.
"I am not interested in excuses. I am interested in solutions. The Student Council President is a representative of this university. A leader. And neither of you demonstrated the maturity required for that role."
A cold dread washed over me. She was going to disqualify us. My years of hard work, my meticulous planning—all of it was about to go up in smoke because of a viral video and some feedback screech.
"However," the Dean said, leaning forward. "The university believes in second chances. And in teachable moments."
She slid a folder across the desk. I glanced at it. The cover read: Westridge Annual Fall Festival Committee Charter.
"The Fall Festival is our biggest community event of the year," she explained. "It requires leadership, cooperation, and a great deal of organizational skill. This year, the committee will have two co-chairs."
My eyes widened as I realized what she was implying. No. Absolutely not.
Ethan spoke first, his voice losing its usual breezy tone. "Dean Hayes, with all due respect, what does this have to do with the election?"
"Everything," she said, her expression severe. "Here is the situation. You two have created a narrative of conflict and drama. You will now prove to this university, and to yourselves, that you can put aside your personal animosity and work together for the good of the student body."
She let that sink in before delivering the final blow.
"You will co-chair the Fall Festival committee. You will work together, civilly and productively. And if you succeed in pulling off a successful festival, your campaigns may continue."
"And if we refuse?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"If you refuse, or if I receive a single report of unprofessional behavior from Professor Albright, who will be your faculty advisor, you will both be immediately disqualified from the election. Am I understood?"
It was an ultimatum. A brilliant, inescapable trap. She was forcing us into a partnership, a forced proximity that was my worst nightmare. I would have to spend the next month working side-by-side with the one person who threatened to undo everything I'd ever worked for.
I looked at Ethan. The lazy smile was gone, replaced by a look of grim understanding. He was trapped, too. He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. Our eyes met across the Dean's desk, and for the first time, we were united in a shared emotion: utter dismay.
There was no choice. To say no was to forfeit my dream.
"I understand," I said, my voice tight.
Dean Hayes turned her gaze to Ethan. "Mr. Brooks?"
He let out a long, slow breath. "Crystal clear, Dean."
"Excellent," she said, a thin, triumphant smile on her lips. "Your first committee meeting is tomorrow at 5:00 PM in the student union. Don't be late."
We were dismissed. We walked out of the office in stunned silence. The reality of the situation was crashing down on me. I had to work with him. I had to depend on him. My perfectly structured campaign had been thrown into chaos.
As we stepped out into the hallway, Ethan leaned against the wall, shaking his head with a humorless laugh.
"Well, partner," he said, his voice dripping with irony. "Looks like we're in this together."
I just stared at him, my mind racing. This was a disaster. But I was Olivia Chen. I didn't back down from a challenge. I didn't fail.
"Don't call me partner, Brooks," I said, my voice cold as ice. "This is not a partnership. This is a ceasefire. And the moment that festival is over, the war is back on."
I turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the hallway. I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes on me, and I knew, with a sinking certainty, that the next month was going to be the longest of my life.