Housebound with the Blackridge Heirs novel Chapter 1

**Change Begins With You — Jayden Collins**
**Chapter 1**

**Maya**

“Tim sorry, Ms. Cole,” the woman behind the counter repeated for what felt like the third time, her voice dripping with forced cheerfulness as if it could somehow make the situation less dire.

“Misplaced,” the guy beside her corrected, muttering just loud enough for me to hear.

“Displaced,” she retorted, a smile plastered on her face that seemed more like a grimace. “The point is, the room you were promised is unavailable.”

“The point,” I echoed, my voice rising slightly in disbelief, “is that I’m standing here with two suitcases, a scholarship, and precisely forty-two dollars to my name until my first stipend arrives. And you’re telling me I’m homeless on day one?”

Her smile widened, if only by a millimeter. “Not homeless. Call it… creative housing.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Is that a new major? Because if so, I think I’d like to sign up.”

Behind me, I heard someone snicker, while the woman in front of me sighed, her exasperation palpable. It was clear I was just another problem in a long line of issues she had faced that day, and I was the one stubbornly sticking around.

The truth was, I was already two weeks behind in the semester. I had sacrificed a tooth and a literal toenail on a site I hoped never to revisit, just to buy my ticket to this place. I could not afford any more delays.

The receptionist clicked away at her keyboard, her nails tapping rhythmically against the surface. I forced myself to focus on the sunlit lobby of Blackridge University’s Housing Office, trying to distract myself from the growing anxiety that churned in my stomach.

The campus was stunning, a picturesque dream come to life. Old stone buildings, sprawling green lawns, and ivy creeping up the walls created an enchanting atmosphere. I was transferring in my third year out of four, but I felt a surge of gratitude at the thought of spending two years at my dream school—if only this housing issue could be resolved.

“Look,” I said, lowering my voice to a near whisper, desperation creeping in. “I transferred late because of some personal issues, and my internship starts tomorrow. Admissions fast-tracked me, and housing was confirmed. I sold my soul to a color-coded spreadsheet—”

“Which we appreciate,” she interjected, barely looking up.

“And I don’t have anyone in this city. Or anywhere, really.” The words slipped out before I could catch them. “So if you could just… ‘creatively’ house me in a room with four walls, that would be fantastic. Even the janitor’s closet would do until someone decides college isn’t for them and drops out.”

She snorted, but I was dead serious.

Just as she opened her mouth to deliver yet another apology, her obnoxiously loud telephone rang, and she grabbed it without a second thought, leaving me to stew in my anxiety.

I couldn’t make out the conversation, but her “yeah”s and “uh-huh”s echoed in my ears, each response gnawing at my nerves.

When she finally hung up, the look of relief on her face told me everything—I was just another problem she wanted to resolve as quickly as possible.

“So, turns out, we can place you,” she announced finally, and my heart leaped with hope. “At Blackridge House, off-campus.”

My relief was short-lived. “The alumni guest house?”

Her colleague chimed in, “The Alpha House.”

I laughed, a nervous sound because the alternative was fainting. “Right. The Alpha House. Is that some sort of euphemism for a frat house?”

The receptionist’s colleague shot me a confused glance, but she shot him a glare that seemed to communicate something I didn’t quite catch. He turned bright red and quickly looked down, as if he had just realized something he shouldn’t have.

“It’s not a frat house,” she clarified, her tone firm. “And it’s not what you initially applied for, but it will do for the first semester at least, and it’s…”

“Free?” I interrupted, my ears perking up at that word.

“Yes,” she confirmed, sliding a carbon-copy form toward me. “Housing covers the rent, utilities, and a transport stipend for this semester. It’s on us because the mistake was ours.”

“Free,” I repeated, still in disbelief. “No catch? No hidden human-sacrifice system I’m unaware of?”

“Free. No catch,” she assured me, and for the first time, her smile seemed genuine—like a policy rather than pity. “We messed up your placement, and the university makes it right.”

I took a moment to absorb this news, staring at the address on the paper she handed me.

“Any surprises I should know about?” I asked tentatively, half-expecting a twist.

Her smile faltered slightly. “It’s either this,” she said, handing me the keycard, “or a hotel for three weeks at your expense.”

With only forty-two dollars, a Domino’s gift card, and two fake silver earrings to my name, I knew I couldn’t afford that.

I bit my cheek and reluctantly accepted the key. “Creative housing it is, then.”

Her smile brightened as her gaze caught someone behind me.

“Elise!” she called out, waving toward a girl with glossy hair, a pressed polo, and a planner that looked like it could run a small country. I liked her already.

Elise approached the counter in three brisk strides. Up close, she smelled faintly of citrus and old books, a combination that felt oddly comforting.

“Please,” the receptionist said, her tone now laced with relief. “Could you show Ms. Cole to Blackridge House?”

As we approached the house, it loomed before me like a grand monument, a testament to time that refused to settle for mediocrity. It was massive, antique, and yet beautiful—a structure that echoed the university’s style but bore a distinct charm that made it seem almost inviting yet intimidating to intruders.

My feet halted mid-step. “That’s a house.”

“Mm-hmm. Welcome to Blackridge House.”

“What’s the cost for a night at a hotel here again?”

Elise’s smile tilted knowingly. “Good luck.”

I did a double take, my heart sinking. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Oh, no.” She glanced at her watch, a hint of urgency in her tone. “I have a lab. But I’ll see you in seminar and at work tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied, swallowing hard. “Tomorrow.”

She squeezed my forearm quickly, a warm gesture, and then peeled away with the same neat efficiency she had arrived with, leaving me feeling slightly dazed and a little too exposed.

I dragged my duffel bag up the front steps, reminding myself that housing had promised to send my suitcases by car, which felt either like an act of kindness or a way to cleanse their guilt. The door stood unlocked, a choice between a trap or a gesture of confidence. I opted for confidence; I had to choose something.

The foyer greeted me with a cool, quiet ambiance, the kind of pristine atmosphere that whispered, “Don’t touch.” Low voices drifted in from deeper within the house, male voices.

I followed the sound, curiosity propelling me forward. I stepped into the living room, and my breath caught in my throat as I came to an abrupt stop, the duffel bag thumping against my leg.

Three men turned to look at me, surprise etched on their faces.

One of them stepped out from a hallway, still damp from a shower, a white towel slung low on his hips, water glistening on his chest.

Across the room, another stood at the entrance of what appeared to be the kitchen, wearing an apron that definitely wasn’t his, a spatula in one hand.

The third was kneeling on the rug, a screwdriver in hand, working on the guts of a robot vacuum.

Nobody spoke. Neither did I.

By the expressions on their faces, it was clear they were just as taken aback by my sudden appearance as I was by theirs.

“Hi,” I managed to say, my mouth betraying me. “Creative housing?”