If you ever wake up in a gilded carriage pulled by white horses with shimmering manes, don’t panic. You’re already doomed.
That’s the first rule of Trope High: if the setting looks like a dream, it’s definitely a trap.
The second rule? Love is not optional.
I had learned both of those rules within ten minutes of arriving, which, frankly, was ten minutes too late. The enchanted carriage screeched to a halt on a hill overlooking the campus, and I finally laid eyes on the place people called the Academy of Romantic Destiny.
The truth is this school was weaponized affection. Romance as punishment. Kissing as curriculum.
I leaned against the window and stared down at the ridiculous scene below. A sprawling campus of towering halls and gardens shimmered in the morning light, framed by cherry blossom trees in constant bloom and soft orchestral music that seemed to waft out of thin air. Literal pink mist curled above the rooftops.
The main courtyard was shaped like a heart. Of course it was.
A banner hung over the main gate:
“Welcome, New Hearts! Your Arc Begins Today!”
Underneath it, in smaller print:
All romantic tracks are final. Deviations will be corrected by faculty.
I glared at it. “Final, my ass.”
The driver—a suspiciously hot, vaguely European man—tilted his head back through the carriage window and said, “Ah, first-timer. Don’t worry, miss. The system knows best. You’ll learn to love love.”
I considered hitting him with my satchel. Decided it wasn’t worth the energy.
The carriage doors opened with a dramatic gust of glitter wind (yes, that’s a thing), and I stepped out into chaos.
Students were everywhere. Some arrived on flying carpets. Others dramatically reunited with former crushes at the gates and immediately started making out under magical flower arches. A trio of vampire twins sulked on the fountain while a werewolf jock flexed shirtless in slow motion.
I blinked.
Behind them stood the main building—Destiny Hall—a massive, overly baroque castle made entirely of romantic nonsense. Curved windows, swan fountains, roses growing out of the marble.
I took one step forward.
Immediately, a heart-shaped scroll appeared in my hands.
Romantic Arc Assignment: Enemies-to-Lovers (You’re the “Enemies” half)
Partner: Jamie Lin
Required Classes: Fake Dating 101, Mutual Loathing 212, Eye Contact 5x/day
Assigned Conflict: Overachieving Golden Boy vs Emotionally Unavailable Cynic
Graduation Probability: 83% (If You Don’t Ruin It)
I stared at it.
I reread it.
I considered setting it on fire.
“Too late,” a voice said behind me. “The moment you open it, it’s magically enforced.”
I turned slowly. He was tall. Warm smile. Soft brown hair, slightly tousled. He wore the school’s uniform, but somehow made it look intentional. And he held a heart-shaped scroll identical to mine.
Jamie Lin.
Of course.
The school’s most prized arc-fodder. Son of alumni. Captain of the Grand Gesture Society. Lover of puppies, apparently. Assigned to me.
“Quinn Vale,” he said. “Right?”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“You’re already talking to me,” he pointed out. “That’s point one toward our daily quota.”
I deadpan-blinked. “I will set this scroll on fire. With my mind.”
He grinned. “Enemies-to-lovers. Classic. Congrats to us.”
I walked away. The scroll reappeared in my pocket.
The rest of the morning was a blur of aggressively choreographed nonsense. Students sang while registering. Someone confessed their love during the ID photo line. A girl had a full breakdown because she was re-assigned to a second-chance lovers plot with her ex. (They were married in the last simulation. He forgot.)
Then I got to the locker hall.
Rows and rows of heart-stickered lockers, each glowing faintly. And right next to mine—mine glowing an angry red—stood two very different figures:
One was a pale girl in head-to-toe black, boots laced to the knee, hair long and sharp. She looked like a crow that had taken human form and hated every minute of it.
The other was a curly-haired boy with anxiety written across his face like eyeliner. He held a blinking device and was muttering, “Okay, if I rewrite the root arc node here, I can crash the destiny sync without damaging the emotional subroutines...”
“Hi,” I said warily.
The boy looked up. “Oh. Quinn, right? I’m Ezra. I’m... sort of an unofficial tech assistant-slash-system saboteur.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Mira Cross. Soulmate Track. Assigned to the same brooding immortal for three semesters straight. If he so much as breathes near me again, I’m ending a prophecy.”
“You’re in my dorm cluster,” Ezra added. “We’re all part of Dorm D. D for Dysfunctional. Or Destiny. Same thing.”
“Why do we share a locker wall?” I asked.
“Proximity clause,” Ezra said grimly. “When the system detects shared narrative resistance, it forces physical closeness. Also, it likes hallway banter.”
Mira kicked her locker. “I don’t banter. I stab.”
The words slipped out before I could hold it in, “I think we should rebel against the arcs.”
There was a long pause.
Mira stared at me, trying to hide the small smile appearing on her face.
Then Ezra smiled too brightly. “You’re gonna fit right in.”
*
The scroll was still glowing when I reached the classroom. It had warmed in my hand like it had blood and purpose, pulsing like a second heartbeat that wasn’t mine. Every step toward Fake Dating 101 made it throb harder, like the spell could feel my reluctance and was trying to cheer me on.
Destiny Hall’s east corridor was lined with enchanted glass panels that played ambient love songs as you walked past—each window reacting to your “assigned arc tone.” Mine alternated between angsty cello solos and a storm soundscape with distant sobbing. I wasn’t sure if that was because of the enemies-to-lovers assignment or just my natural aura.
Outside the classroom door, I stopped.
Laughter echoed from inside. Someone was serenading someone else. Professor Amoret’s voice—bright and sweet like a heart-shaped dagger—was encouraging them to add more longing to their vowels. I took a breath, rolled my shoulders, and stepped inside.
The room looked like someone had let a wedding planner and a motivational speaker design a panic attack. Golden trim lined every edge. Heart-shaped chalkboards pulsed with faint pink light. On each desk sat scrolls, glitter pens, and a card labeled Assigned Partner: Confirm Chemistry. Jamie Lin was already there.
He sat one row from the front, legs crossed, smirking like he’d just aced a test without opening the book. When he saw me, he raised a brow and pointed to the seat beside him. I walked past him, looped around two rows, and sat diagonally behind him without a word. That earned me a smile. It felt undeserved.
Across the room, Ezra was already seated, hunched over his datapad, fingers twitching anxiously as he whispered code into it like a prayer. His entire body vibrated with nervous energy, like he was trying to hack reality faster than it could crash him.
Next to him, lounging like a panther in detention, was a boy in a battered leather jacket and combat boots kicked up onto the desk. He was grinning, sharp and lazy, like he knew things he shouldn’t and loved being a problem. His eyes flicked sideways toward Ezra.
“You always type this fast, or is that just for me?” he said.
Ezra flinched. “I—I don’t—this is a timed buffer bypass—”
The boy chuckled. “Adorable. Keep going. I like the sound of you panicking.”
Ezra muttered something that may have been a threat but came out sounding like a whimper. I didn’t know who that guy was, but I already hated how much he enjoyed being seen.
Then the air shifted.
Boots clicked against marble.
Every head turned just a little, just enough, as Mira Cross entered the room.
She was storm-dressed, all black layers and long hair and a look on her face like she could ruin your life with three words and no remorse. She held her fate scroll with two fingers like it was something rotting, eyes locked straight ahead until they landed on him.
Rowan Vex.
He was already seated near the center of the room, posture still, sketchbook open in his lap. He didn’t look up. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.
Mira stopped walking.
Her jaw tightened. Her scroll flared brighter in her hand, reacting to his proximity, or hers, or maybe just the gravity between them. She stood there for three full seconds before walking past him with deliberate indifference.
He didn’t look at her. But when her bag started to slip off the edge of the desk, he reached over silently and caught the strap, lifting it back into place with a gentle ease like it wasn’t the first time. Mira didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say anything at all.
