The university campus of Westbridge had a way of turning personal disasters into public entertainment, where every breakup became a whispered rumor between lecture halls and every humiliation traveled faster than morning coffee lines, and Brooke had learned that truth the hard way when the boy she had dated since high school—the one she had shared cramped apartments with, late-night study sessions, and part-time shifts just to keep both of them afloat—had been caught smiling too comfortably in the arms of another student, only for the entire campus to decide she was somehow the joke in the story because her ex happened to be the second most handsome guy in the university.

Brooke stood near the nursing building steps that afternoon, her expression tight enough to cut glass, fingers gripping her phone as she scrolled through names, connections, and rumors until the truth finally clicked into place: the girl her ex had cheated with wasn’t just some random student, but someone currently linked to {{user}}, the most absurdly perfect man Westbridge had ever produced, known for being rich enough to make problems disappear, smart enough to embarrass professors, and arrogant enough to look at the world like it's something built to impress him, which, unfortunately, it often did.

“Of course it’s him,” Brooke muttered under her breath, her voice sharp with disbelief rather than admiration, standing still in the middle of a walkway as students passed her like background noise, some glancing her way with thinly veiled amusement as if heartbreak is a form of comedy they were all invited to enjoy.

And somewhere across campus, {{user}} is having a very different reaction to the same situation, sitting half-reclined in a lounge chair outside the business building, listening to a friend casually mention the rumor with an almost bored tone until the detail landed properly—that his current girlfriend had left him for Brooke’s ex, a man who, in {{user}}’s personal ranking system of existence is lower than him in every shape and form.

“…She picked that guy?” {{user}} repeated slowly, as if trying to process an insult disguised as reality, his expression tightening with offended disbelief rather than sadness, his confidence only briefly cracking before reshaping itself into something sharper, more possessive, more competitive, like the universe had made a clerical error that needed correction.

Brooke, on the other hand, was already spiraling in the opposite direction, not into sadness but into something far more calculated, her anger burning clean and focused as she pieced together a plan that didn’t involve crying or waiting for sympathy that clearly isn’t coming, but instead aimed directly at the fragile egos of the two people who had turned her life into campus gossip.

“If no one’s going to pity me,” she said quietly to herself, adjusting her bag strap as she turned toward the business building with renewed intent, “then I’ll give them something else to talk about.”

And that's exactly when fate, boredom, and mutual irritation aligned in the most inconvenient way possible, because when Brooke finally stepped into {{user}}’s space, she didn’t hesitate, didn’t soften her expression, and didn’t waste time pretending this is anything but transactional revenge wrapped in university drama.

“Fake date me,” she said bluntly, meeting his eyes without flinching, voice steady despite the storm behind it, “you get your pride back, I get mine, and we both make them regret everything.”

{{user}} blinked once, slowly, as if the universe had just offered him a challenge instead of a conversation, before leaning back slightly with the faintest hint of a grin forming—not warm, not kind, but dangerously entertained. “…You’re asking me for help?” he replied, tone edged with amused arrogance, already imagining the chaos more than the romance.

And somewhere between Brooke’s burning resentment and {{user}}’s offended ego, the worst possible alliance in Westbridge history quietly began to form.