THE PERFECT STRANGER
JODY'S POV
The envelope's black wax seal bore a symbol I had never seen—a serpent coiled around an ancient key.
I turned it over in my hands for the third time this morning, the heavy paper still warm against my fingertips. The elegant script spelling out my name seemed to mock the chaos of my dorm room—textbooks I couldn't afford scattered across my unmade bed, yesterday's clothes draped over my desk chair like surrender flags.
The invitation itself was even more mysterious. Thick cardstock embossed with gold lettering that caught the weak October light filtering through my window. "The Obsidian Circle cordially invites Miss Jody Hopkins to an informal gathering..." But no date. No time. No location. Just a phone number written in the same elegant script and the promise of "opportunities beyond your current circumstances."
My stomach growled, reminding me I'd skipped breakfast to stretch my remaining meal plan credits. The invitation could be anything—a prank, a scam, some elaborate joke at the scholarship kid's expense. But the paper felt too expensive for cruelty, too substantial for mere entertainment.
I tucked the invitation into my chemistry textbook and headed for the library. If I was going to fail Professor Martinez's class, at least I'd fail fighting.
The chemistry section occupied the basement level of the Whitmore Library, its fluorescent lights humming with the desperation of pre-med students and engineering majors. I found my usual spot in the corner, where I could spread out my notebooks without anyone seeing how few resources I actually had.
The molecular orbital theory section might as well have been written in ancient Greek. I read the same paragraph five times, each attempt making less sense than the last. The diagrams swam before my eyes—overlapping circles and arrows that supposedly explained how atoms bonded, but felt more like abstract art designed to torture undergraduates.
"You're approaching it backwards."
I looked up to find someone sliding into the chair across from me. Dark hair that looked effortlessly styled, wearing a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my textbooks. His smile was warm, but his eyes were the kind of pale blue that seemed to see everything.
"Excuse me?"
"Molecular orbital theory," he said, nodding toward my open textbook. "You're trying to memorize the diagrams instead of understanding the concept behind them."
Heat flushed my cheeks. "I wasn't—"
"I'm Alex." He extended his hand across the table. "Alex Gallagher. And you're wrestling with one of the most counterintuitive topics in undergraduate chemistry."
His handshake was firm, confident. The kind of grip that came from never having to prove yourself to anyone. "Jody Hopkins."
"Mind if I show you a different approach?"
I should have said no. Should have packed up my books and found somewhere else to fail in private. Instead, I found myself nodding, desperate enough to accept help from a stranger who probably saw me as an interesting charity project.
Alex pulled a notebook from his leather messenger bag and began sketching. His hands moved with practiced ease, creating diagrams that actually made sense. "Think of it like this—atoms don't just share electrons, they create entirely new spaces where those electrons can exist."
For the first time in weeks, the concepts started clicking. Alex's explanations cut through the academic jargon, breaking down complex theories into manageable pieces. He was patient when I asked questions, encouraging when I got frustrated, and genuinely pleased when I finally grasped a particularly difficult concept.
"You're really good at this," I said as he helped me work through a practice problem.
"I had excellent teachers." His smile faltered for just a moment. "Besides, it's easier to understand something when you're not stressed about paying for the textbook."
My pen stopped moving. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, just—college is expensive. We all feel the pressure."
But Alex's clothes whispered money. His watch looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. Everything about him screamed privilege, from his straight teeth to his perfect posture. How would he know anything about financial stress?
"You mentioned you're from Ohio," he continued, as if the previous moment hadn't happened. "Millerville, right?"
My blood turned cold. I hadn't mentioned my hometown. Hadn't told him anything about my background. "How did you—"
"Lucky guess. You have that small-town determination. I admire it, actually. Takes real courage to come somewhere like Ashford on scholarship."
There it was again. Information he shouldn't have. I studied his face, looking for some explanation, but found only that same warm smile.
"The work-study position at the bookstore must have been tough to lose," he added, turning a page in my textbook. "But maybe it's a blessing in disguise. More time to focus on academics."
The library suddenly felt too small, too warm. Alex kept talking about molecular hybridization, but his words seemed to come from a great distance. How did he know about my job? About my scholarship status? Ashford had thousands of students, and I'd made a point of keeping a low profile.
"I should probably get going," I said, starting to pack up my books.
"We're just getting started." Alex's hand covered mine on the textbook, stopping my movement. "You were beginning to understand the orbital overlap theory."
His touch was warm, gentle, but something in his grip made me hesitate. Around us, other students whispered in study groups, their conversations creating a low buzz of academic anxiety. But I caught fragments that made my skin crawl.
"...charity case getting tutored by Gallagher royalty..."
"...bet she thinks this means something..."
"...probably desperate enough to believe anything..."
Alex either didn't hear them or didn't care. He continued explaining bond formation, his voice steady and reassuring, but the whispers followed me like smoke. I was the entertainment now, the scholarship kid who'd caught the attention of someone so far above her social stratum that their interaction qualified as gossip.
"Thank you for the help," I said, finally managing to slide my textbook away from his hand. "I really do need to go."
"Of course." Alex stood as well, gathering his expensive notebook and gold-plated pen. "Same time tomorrow? We could work through the hybridization chapter."
Something in his eagerness made me pause. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because you remind me of myself when I was struggling with these concepts." The answer came too quickly, too smoothly. "Everyone deserves a chance to succeed."
As we packed our remaining books, light caught Alex's watch—a slim piece that probably cost more than most people's cars. But it was the engraving on the back that made my breath catch. The same symbol from the mysterious invitation. A serpent coiled around an ancient key, etched into expensive metal.
I looked up to ask about it, but the question died on my lips. For just a moment, Alex's expression had shifted into something calculating and cold, his pale eyes studying me with clinical interest. Then his warm smile returned so quickly I almost convinced myself I'd imagined the change.
"Tomorrow then?" he asked, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Alex walked away with the confident stride of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world, leaving me alone among the stacks with more questions than answers.
The invitation felt heavier in my textbook, its elegant script suddenly seeming less like opportunity and more like a trap I was already walking into.