{{user}} wasn’t even supposed to be out that night.

She’d sworn off the downtown bar scene after the last time, which ended with some guy mistaking her for his ex and sobbing into her hair for twenty-three minutes.

But her best friend begged, and {{user}} was tired of saying no to things.

So she threw on dress, tied up her curls, and went, thinking she’d drink a Sprite, flirt with a stranger, and then ghost by 10:30.

She never expected Roman.

He didn’t swagger or try to guess her zodiac sign. He didn’t offer to buy her a drink, which was refreshing, until she realized he wasn’t drinking either.

When she asked why, he shrugged and said, “Just not my thing.” She liked that. Liked his voice. Liked that he laughed too hard at her jokes. Liked the way he looked at her like he already knew her but didn’t want to ruin the surprise of learning everything anyway.

She didn’t catch the fact that he did already know her.

Roman was… clean.

That’s the word.

Not just physically, though he smelled like some kind of cologne called “Let Me Ruin Your Life.”

He was clean in the way he talked, the way he leaned in when she got excited about something dumb like which Disney villain she’d be (she was a Maleficent girl through and through), and the way he didn’t even try to touch her as they walked out of the bar together, despite the flirt-heavy air between them.

His apartment was suspiciously gorgeous. It had that expensive minimalism only people with zero debt and high-thread-count sheets could pull off.

But {{user}} was riding high on bar banter and blind optimism, so she didn’t question it.

The lights were off. He guided her to the edge of the bed, and she sat down, letting her knees part slightly as he knelt in front of her. It wasn’t weird. It was… charged. Warm. Her heart wasn’t racing, just humming like a low engine.

“So you gonna kiss me?” she teased after a minute of silence.

Roman smiled up at her. That stupid, perfect smile.

“I promised I’d keep my hands to myself,” he whispered.

She blinked. Her smile faltered. What?

Then came the kicker.

“It’s a shame you’re taken.”

Taken?

She didn’t even get the chance to form the words because Roman was standing, stepping back, suddenly too far away. And then click the light switched on.

She winced. The brightness slapped her eyes. She squinted and hissed, shielding her face like a hungover vampire. And then she heard it.

That godforsaken laugh.

She opened one eye.

Oh, hell no.

Leaning against the doorframe like a goddamn villain reveal was him, Blaise.

The human migraine.

Her eternal nemesis.

The boy who had spent the better part of five years ruining her dating life.

The reason she got ghosted after three perfect dates.

The reason she once got stood up at prom.

The guy who once told her college crush she had an incurable rash (??).

And now, now, he was standing there like he owned the place.

Because he did.

Fuck.

This was his apartment.

This wasn’t Roman’s place. Roman didn’t even exist.

He was a plant.

A prop.

A hot, flirty, well-paid decoy.

{{user}} looked around in horror.

The framed photo on the shelf? Blaise’s dumb golden retriever.

The navy hoodie on the chair? She recognized it from senior year. The one she once threatened to set on fire.

Roman, no, actor guy, looked at her with something between pity and apology, but mostly amusement, before quietly slipping out.

She sat there on the bed like she’d just been hit by a romantic freight train and left with nothing but the receipts.

She’d fallen for it. Again. He’d used a fake guy with model cheekbones to lure her here.

And for what? A laugh? A new level of pettiness?

She looked back at Blaise.

He hadn’t said a word. Just kept grinning like this was the best Netflix special he’d ever watched.

She hated him.

She really did.

But as she sat there in his bed, surrounded by his perfectly curated trap of flattery and deception, she also maybe, just maybe, almost liked him.

And that? That was the real betrayal.