Chapter 2Rejecting The Heroine Loyalty Test

I looked at the unhinged, sycophantic text hovering over her head.

Then I looked at Emma, standing there with her arms crossed, glaring at me like a high-school principal caught in a bad teen drama.

A low, dry laugh scraped past my throat.

She had the nerve to lecture me on superficiality?

When she swiped on my profile in the campus cohort server, how much of that had nothing to do with my face? If my avatar hadn't been an unedited, high-res shot of me on my family’s boat in Newport, would Emma have ever bothered sliding into my DMs?

This whole thing started with mutual visual interest. Pretending it was some profound meeting of twin souls now was pathetic.

I crossed my arms, leaning back slightly.

"And who the hell are you supposed to be?"

"She asked me out. I turned her down. That is strictly between the two of us. What business is it of yours? What kind of campus white-knight complex are you suffering from?"

Emma’s righteous stance faltered, knocked off balance by the sheer lack of recognition in my voice. She stumbled, grasping for footing.

"I... I'm standing up for a friend! Brittany is my roommate, and she is one of the kindest, most selfless people on this campus. You have no right to humiliate her like this!"

"You two shared real intimacy all summer. Are you telling me you never felt her sincerity?"

The chat feed blurred past at breakneck speed.

God, hearing Emma beg for someone else's sake is gut-wrenching. I’ve never seen her try this hard to make someone see the truth.

What is wrong with this guy? How can he just spit on someone's emotional labor?

The corner of my mouth curled into a vicious sneer.

Sincerity?

What sincerity?

The sincerity of sending low-effort 'thinking of you' texts while bingeing Netflix?

Relationships aren't a charity drive where you drop a few digital pennies in a bucket and automatically buy a boyfriend. If sending a few dozen emojis constituted a binding emotional contract, I could date half the sorority row and send them all DoorDash every morning. My effort would blow hers out of the water.

I only kept the chat alive because the girl in the photos was gorgeous and her banter was tolerable. If she had used her real face from day one, she would have sat in my message requests until graduation.

If I could turn back the clock to July, I’d punch my past self straight in the jaw with a single reminder: Never accept random friend requests from insecure sophomores.

With my family’s name and portfolio, finding an Ivy-tier, stunning girl was as easy as walking into a room. If I asked for a three-legged dog with pedigree papers, people would hire private investigators to track one down for me.

The cold amusement in my eyes turned razor-sharp.

Emma and Brittany exchanged a quick, furtive look. Seeing me fall quiet, they evidently assumed their moral lecture had struck a nerve—that I was deep in wealthy-kid guilt.

Brittany took the cue and leaned in again, trying to close the deal.

"Travis... even if it's a shock at first, you owe it to us to give this a real chance. Just spend an hour with me. Let me show you who I really am."

She leaned forward, her nicotine-stained fingers reaching to grab my wrist, fixing me with what she clearly believed was a look of soulful longing.

The moment Emma saw Brittany’s hand reach for my skin, her composure snapped. A possessive jealousy flared in her eyes, and she instinctively stepped in to block Brittany's arm.

Before Emma could touch either of us, I spun hard to the side.

My diaphragm violently contracted. I doubled over, my palm slamming over my mouth as a dry heave ripped through my ribs.

The cocktail of Brittany’s greasy hair, the sour reek of unwashed polyester, and that theatrical, suffocating attempt at seduction had officially broken my sensory limit. I had been holding my breath for three straight minutes; seeing that face twist into a coy, seductive pout made my stomach violently revolt.

I stood there gagging onto the hardwood floor for several agonizing seconds.

Fumbling into my duffel bag, I yanked out a monogrammed linen handkerchief, pressed it hard against my nose, and finally forced the rising bile back down.

I straightened up, my eyes watering with rage, and glared at the two frozen girls.

"I don't have a humiliation kink," I rasped through the cloth. "Looking at you makes me physically ill. Take your 'sincerity' and find someone who can stomach standing within ten feet of you."

The insult landed like a physical blow. The color drained from Brittany’s face before rushing back in an ugly, congested plum.

Right behind her, someone in the crowd let out a loud, unrestrained snort.

The Roasted Bean sat directly opposite the campus transit hub, and move-in day meant the place was packed with upperclassmen and freshmen dragging suitcases. Neither Brittany nor Emma had bothered to keep their voices down. A dense semicircle of twenty students had formed around us, watching the drama with iced lattes in hand.

Catching Brittany glaring wildly at him, the guy who had snorted took a step forward, completely unfazed.

"What are you looking at me for? Check a mirror, sweetie," he called out with a grin. "You’re a solid two acting like you’re entitled to a male model. Since when does looking like a troll give you a VIP pass to a hot guy?"

With the ice broken, the rest of the cafe joined in, the collective whispers turning into open mockery.

"Seriously, where does she get off trying to guilt-trip a guy out of her league?"

"If it were the blonde girl, sure, they look like a Greek life power couple. But the other one? Delusional."

"The sheer entitlement of average-looking people these days is wild."