Olivia
The scent of old paper and ambition filled the air in the Westridge University student union. It was my natural habitat. For three years, I'd practically lived in this building, fueled by lukewarm coffee and an unshakeable certainty that I was destined for the president's office on the top floor. Not this one, necessarily, but one with a seal on the door and a nation to run. Westridge was just the first step.
My planner, a pristine leather-bound volume, lay open on the table. Every hour of my day was accounted for, color-coded for maximum efficiency. Green for classes, blue for study blocks, yellow for Student Government duties, and today's special, a vibrant, victorious red: 4:00 PM - Announce Presidential Candidacy.
My best friend and roommate, Mia Rodriguez, bounced in her seat across from me, her vibrant pink hair a stark contrast to the muted tones of the student union's ancient armchairs. "Liv, you're going to kill it. You've been planning this since we were freshmen."
"Planning is the easy part," I murmured, smoothing down the front of my perfectly pressed blazer for the tenth time. "Execution is everything."
"You've got that covered too," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "You've chaired three committees, organized the most successful charity drive in Westridge history, and you have a GPA that makes professors weep. Who could possibly run against you?"
That was the million-dollar question. So far, the field was empty. I had systematically built a reputation for being unshakably competent, a political machine in a five-foot-four frame. I wasn't just running for president; I was claiming a position I had earned.
At precisely 3:55 PM, I closed my planner, took a steadying breath, and stood. Mia gave me a thumbs-up, her camera-phone already poised to capture the moment for my campaign's Instagram feed.
The small crowd gathered in the atrium was a mix of student journalists, friends I'd roped into a makeshift campaign team, and a few curious onlookers. I stepped up to the podium we'd set up, my speech memorized, every word polished to a high shine.
"Fellow students of Westridge University," I began, my voice clear and confident, ringing with the authority I'd spent years cultivating. "My name is Olivia Chen, and I stand before you today not just as a candidate, but as a promise."
I laid out my platform—increased funding for student arts, a more transparent budget, a mentorship program connecting underclassmen with seniors. It was practical, achievable, and meticulously researched. It was, in a word, perfect.
"Because at Westridge," I concluded, my eyes sweeping across the faces in the crowd, "we don't just dream of a better future. We build it. Together. That is why today, I am officially announcing my candidacy for Student Council President."
A wave of polite, enthusiastic applause washed over me. I smiled, a genuine, satisfied smile. It was happening. Everything was going according to plan.
Mia rushed forward to give me a hug. "You were amazing! Presidential, even."
I felt a warm glow spread through my chest. This was it. This was the start.
And then, the doors to the student union swung open with a dramatic flair that seemed to suck the air out of the room.
In walked Ethan Brooks.
If I was a finely tuned political machine, Ethan was a party looking for a place to happen. He was the king of the business school, known more for his charm, his trust fund, and the string of broken hearts he left in his wake than for any academic achievement. He moved with an easy, infuriating confidence, a reckless grin plastered on his face as if he owned the very ground he walked on. Which, given his family's name was on half the buildings on campus, he probably did.
He wasn't alone. A posse of his business-major acolytes followed him, their laughter echoing a little too loudly in the suddenly quiet atrium. He sauntered towards the front, his eyes, a startling shade of blue-green, scanning the room before they landed on me. That grin of his widened.
"Well, well," he said, his voice a smooth baritone that always seemed to carry. "Looks like I missed the opening act."
I stiffened, my perfect post-speech glow evaporating. "What do you want, Brooks?"
He ignored me, turning to the remnants of the crowd, which had perked up considerably at his arrival. He hopped onto the podium I had just vacated, a move so casually arrogant it made my teeth ache.
"Olivia Chen, everyone," he announced, gesturing to me with a grand sweep of his arm. "She's smart, she's dedicated, she'll probably try to schedule fun on a spreadsheet."
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the audience. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.
"She's got a great plan," he continued, his tone shifting from mocking to something that sounded dangerously like sincere. "A really, really detailed plan. But a university isn't just about plans and policies. It's about spirit. It's about making memories. It's about having a damn good time while you're getting your degree."
He leaned forward, his gaze locking with mine. "And while Olivia is busy building the future, I think someone needs to make sure we're all enjoying the present."
He paused, letting the silence hang in the air for a beat. My heart hammered against my ribs, a cold dread creeping up my spine. No. He wouldn't dare.
Ethan Brooks straightened up, that infuriating, charming, reckless grin back at full force.
"So, I guess what I'm trying to say is," he declared, his voice booming through the atrium, "my name is Ethan Brooks. And I'm running for Student Council President too."
The room erupted. Not in polite applause, but in a chaotic buzz of shouts, gasps, and excited chatter. Mia's jaw was on the floor. My perfectly planned, color-coded world had just been drenched in a messy, unpredictable, and utterly infuriating shade of Ethan Brooks.
My campaign had officially begun. And I already had my first enemy.