Chapter 1Rejecting The Heroine Loyalty Test

The week before move-in day at Preston University, I got a direct message in the official incoming freshman Discord server from a sophomore named Emma.

Her messages were effortlessly charming—dry, clever, and just warm enough to keep me hooked. The voice notes she sent had that low, sleepy rasp that sounded dangerously intimate through AirPods. And the photos she casually dropped into the chat? Golden-hour selfies in vintage oversized crewnecks, messy blonde hair, high cheekbones, aesthetic film grain. She looked like a girl pulled straight from an East Hampton summer campaign.

We spent July and August in that dizzying, late-night text-tether where neither of us had drawn the official line yet, but both of us knew exactly what the game was.

Two days before orientation, she texted:

Ten o’clock Monday. The Roasted Bean on College Ave. My treat. Let’s see if you look as good in person as you do on my lock screen.

On Monday morning, I pushed open the frosted-glass door of the cafe, the smell of burnt espresso and damp autumn air hitting my face.

The girl waiting in the corner leather booth didn’t look a single thing like the photos.

Her skin was grayish-brown and badly congested with cystic acne scars. She wore a stained, pilled sweater that hung awkwardly over a sluggish, heavy frame. The moment our eyes locked, she pushed herself up from the booth with a nervous, uncoordinated jerk, smiling wide enough to display two front teeth heavily yellowed by cigarette smoke.

"T—Travis!" she stammered, her voice a thick, nasal whine that sounded like someone dragging nails across drywall. "I've had feelings for you for so long. Will you be my boyfriend?"

A prickle of icy revulsion crawled straight up my neck. My fight-or-flight kicked in instantly. I spun on my heel toward the exit.

And right then, a translucent string of glowing neon text scrolled straight through my vision, hovering in mid-air like a Twitch livestream chat.

Hurry up and say yes! The real female lead is hiding in the back booth watching the whole thing!

Poor Emma, her attachment anxiety is so heartbreaking. She only set up this catfish test because she’s terrified he only loves her for her looks.

Her insecurity is actually so cute. She fell for him at first sight, she just needs to know his soul is genuine.

All he has to do is prove he looks past the surface, and Emma will step out, reveal it was a loyalty test, and we’ll get our endgame HEA!

I paused mid-stride, my peripheral vision cutting toward the secluded high-backed booth near the emergency exit.

Sure enough, a girl was leaning forward, peeking over the mahogany divider. The sharp jawline, the framed blonde waves—an exact match for the summer photos.

The floating text accelerated into a frantic blur:

Why isn't he answering yet? The second-hand anxiety is killing me! How much longer is he gonna make our girl wait?!

The invisible crowd was holding its breath, waiting for me to recite my line like a well-trained dog so they could have their prefabricated romance.

I looked back at the stranger standing before me, feeling nothing but a profound, chilling disgust.

"No," I said, voice flat and clear enough to carry across the room. "What on earth makes you think you’re in my league?"

* * *

Watching those glowing words hang in the air, I almost laughed out loud.

Did I think Emma was cute over the summer? Sure. But we hadn't even had a first date. I didn't owe her fidelity, I didn't owe her my future, and she had zero damn right to subject me to some amateur psychological loyalty test.

Having delivered my answer, I turned back toward the exit.

Humiliated by the sheer bluntness of my rejection, Brittany’s eyes widened with manic entitlement. She lunged forward, her dirty fingernails clawing toward my leather jacket.

"You're saying no? Who the hell do you think you are to say no?" she screeched, loud enough to cut through the hum of the espresso machine. "We talked every single night! In what world am I not good enough for you?"

Her complete lack of self-awareness bordered on medical insanity. I stopped, letting my eyes rake over her from unwashed sneakers to greasy roots, letting the silence do the talking.

Where did she find the audacity? Was there a single metric—looks, hygiene, basic sanity—where she imagined we existed in the same universe? If I had known today was an audition for a freak show, I wouldn't have wasted twenty minutes styling my hair.

That silent, contemptuous look struck whatever fragile delusion she had left.

Her sallow face flushed a violent, mottled purple. Desperate to seize some moral high ground, she raised her voice to a theatrical shriek.

"You're acting like you never cared? If you didn't, why were you texting me for two months straight?"

"You're just shallow! You hate me because I'm not a trust-fund bimbo with a nose job! You're a disgusting, superficial frat boy who never cared about an honest girl's heart!"

I stared at her, genuinely fascinated by the mental gymnastics.

If she already knew she looked like a walking biohazard and didn't have a dime to her name, where did she get the confidence to demand me as a prize?

She caught the stark mockery in my eyes and lunged again, hands hooked like talons.

I took a clean, effortless step backward, easily dodging her reach. The last shred of my patience snapped.

"Since you’re fully aware of your shortcomings, stay the hell away from me," I said, my tone dropping to absolute zero. "Now that you know I don't give a damn about you, do us both a favor: block my number, delete the chat, and don't breathe in my direction again."

Hearing that I was cutting the cord for good, Brittany panicked.

She stepped straight into my personal space. A suffocating wave washed over me—the rank stench of stale sebum, unwashed clothes, and sour sweat that smelled like gym socks left rotting in a plastic bag.

My stomach violently spasmed. I clamped a hand over my mouth, tightening my grip on my weekend duffel, fighting the raw physical impulse to swing it into her face just to create five feet of breathable air.

Back in the corner booth, Emma realized her little psychological experiment had completely derailed. Unable to maintain her undercover post, she stormed out and planted herself directly between me and the glass double doors.

For a second, I thought she was stepping up to admit the prank and salvage whatever dignity she had left.

Instead, her fists were clenched, her chest heaving with rehearsed moral outrage as she jumped in to defend Brittany.

"Do you have any idea how toxic you're being right now?" Emma hissed.

"You led Brittany on for an entire summer! Our whole hall knows how hard she fell for you, and the second you meet face-to-face, you treat her like trash because of her weight and her skin?"

"What about the emotional vulnerability she gave you? What about all those late-night conversations? Does human connection mean literally nothing to you the second someone doesn't look like an Instagram model?"

As her rehearsed speech echoed through the cafe, the floating text exploded into a storm of heart-eyes and weeping emojis.

Oh my god, how can the male lead be so heartless? My poor baby Emma's heart is breaking in real-time.

She’s so ride-or-die. Even after seeing how cruel he is, she’s still protecting her girl. She's too pure for this world.

Look at her putting on a tough front while dying inside. All Travis has to do is swallow his pride, pull her into a hug, and whisper an apology, and she'll forgive him. Peak romance.