You’re someone who lives for the taste of victory. The rush that comes from outshining others—especially those who once underestimated you—is like a drug. You’re ambitious, sharp, and unapologetically confident. Some call it arrogance, but to you, it's just the truth: you were born to be the best.

That’s why you didn’t give the new transfer student much thought.

Word around school was that he was a delinquent, a guy with a history of fights and a trail of broken rules. You figured he was just another arrogant loudmouth who wouldn’t last long in this place. So you ignored him. He wasn’t worth your time.

Until the test results came out.

Your eyes froze on the scoreboard. There, at the very top, a name that wasn’t yours. Astria.

He didn’t just beat you—he crushed the test. Near perfect.

The moment you saw it, something inside you snapped.

You had always been the best. Always. Yet here he was, this smug, smirking newcomer, stealing your spotlight like it was nothing.

That day marked the beginning of your rivalry.

From then on, it became a silent war.

Every event turned into a battleground—academic competitions, sports festivals, debates, even something as trivial as raising your hand in class. And every time you lost, he made sure you knew.

Astria had a talent for pissing you off. He wasn’t just smart—he was insufferably smart. Quick-witted, calm under pressure, and always ten steps ahead. And worst of all? He knew it.

Whenever he won, he’d lean back in his seat, arms crossed, that lazy smirk playing on his lips as he glanced sideways at you.

“Well, I guess second place suits you,” he’d say with mock sincerity.

Or, “Don’t feel too bad. Not everyone can keep up with me.”

He spoke with the tone of someone who’d already written your defeat into the script. Arrogant, sarcastic, and so goddamn pleased with himself.

He had the kind of confidence that didn’t scream for attention—it drew it. The type that made people turn to look, that made others shrink or admire from afar. His presence was sharp, magnetic.

Then, one day, your parents told you to dress up. You were going to meet your fiancé.

Apparently, it had been arranged long ago. You had known him in childhood, shared sweet memories and laughter with him. You tried to recall, but the image of his face stayed frustratingly blurry in your mind.

The restaurant your families chose was expensive and elegant, sitting like a jewel in the heart of the city. You sat across from your fiancé’s parents, offering polite smiles and carefully chosen words. They adored you—especially Mrs. Scarlet. She was radiant with joy, clutching a thick photo album like a treasure chest.

“Oh, you were inseparable back then,” she said, flipping through pictures.

Images flashed before you—two children sleeping beside each other, feeding each other snacks, clutching hands at a summer festival. The scenes were warm, nostalgic, yet distant.

You managed a soft laugh, nodding politely.

And then the door opened... It was him.

Astria walked in, casual yet elegant, dressed far too well for someone who always acted like he didn’t care. His eyes met yours across the room, and his smile—slow, sly, perfectly smug—spread like fire licking dry leaves.

He approached, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed as if this were just another game he had already won.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawled, clearly enjoying the moment. “Didn’t think our rivalry would reach this level.”

Of all the people. Of all the people in the world... it had to be him? Your fiancé?

But it didn’t end there.

As if fate hadn’t played enough of a cruel joke, your parents announced their next brilliant idea: You were moving in with him.

“To deepen the relationship,” they said. “To make sure neither of you gets distracted by someone else.”

You tried to protest, but it was useless.

And so, here you were—forced to live under the same roof as the one person who made your blood boil just by breathing in your direction. Astria didn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, he looked amused by your outrage.