With a polite nod, I grab my case and make my way to the golf carts. An older man takes my card and loads my case onto the back of the cart, before offering me his hand to help me inside. I take it, not wanting to be rude, but wonder who here needs a hand to get the twelve inches from the floor to the seat in the cart.

We stop at another set of gazebos, and he helps me out and waits while I have my photo taken for my student ID, where I again have to explain that I’m not married and that my name is not Lockwood. I hate that after all this time Sebastian has invaded my life again with this cruel joke. It can only be Evan who did this. He’s the only person I know at Kingsacre, and the only one here who knows about my short-lived, life-altering interlude with the Lockwood heir apparent.

I wish I knew why he was doing this now. I’m not a part of his or his dad’s life, I’ve never visited his house, or tried to cash in on the Morris name. As far as I’m concerned, Harry is my mom’s new husband and Evan is his son, and that’s it. I’m happy that she’s happy, but given how strained my and my mom’s relationship is, I have no interest in being part of her world. I’d hoped that I could remain distantly civil with my new stepbrother. Perhaps a nod in passing, but this instant attack the moment I walk through the gates, suggests that perhaps just pretending we have no idea who the other is might be a better idea.

The website shows pictures of the campus housing, but until now I haven’t seen it in person. I never had any intention of going here, so I didn’t see the point in coming to take a tour. Apparently the photo gallery didn’t do the place any justice, because the houses are nothing like I was expecting. The housing starts at about five minutes’ drive from the campus buildings with a mini suburb made up of rows of town houses. After that there’s a tiny village of ranch-style homes, then a grouping of craftsman bungalows with each of the houses in the little mini village getting increasingly larger the farther away from the campus site we get. By the time the cart slows to a stop, the houses are huge and spread out, with giant gated driveways, some even appear to have pools. Collinswood house is a massive Queen Ann Victorian-style home complete with a turret, spindle work and a wraparound porch. It’s gorgeous, and imposing and it can’t be the place my scholarship funding is allowing me to stay.

“This must be the wrong place,” I tell the driver when he climbs out of the cart and reaches for my case. “No, wait. I need to call student services, because I’m on a scholarship, there’s no way that pays for me to stay in this place. There’s been a mix-up with my name, so this must be where whoever my file got confused with is supposed to live. I don’t want to unpack only to have to pack up and move when the person who’s supposed to be living here figures out the mistake.” Pulling my cell from my pocket, I open the packet, find the student liaison number and call it.