Chapter 1

My hopeless romantic roommate had been chasing the campus golden boy for three years. Then, out of nowhere, she announced in our group chat:

"I've decided I'm done chasing him! To celebrate, I'm treating the whole dorm to a private boudoir photoshoot this Friday. No one is allowed to skip!"

The group chat instantly exploded.

Everyone was cheering. I was the only one whose blood ran cold.

When that golden boy texted her, "My phone broke," she borrowed money just to send it to him, living off ramen noodles for months to pay it back.

Now, someone like that is suddenly "over him" and willing to drop over a thousand bucks to buy us a private photoshoot?

The more I thought about it, the more my stomach tied itself in knots.

That very night, I went to my RA, faked a sick leave, and took the red-eye bus straight home.

Saturday morning, I woke up and checked my phone.

63 missed calls. 99+ text messages.

My roommate had sent me a sobbing voice memo:

"Chloe! You are so lucky you didn't show up! Do you have any idea what Mia did with our photos?!"

I opened the dorm group chat and instantly understood everything.

That photoshoot was never about getting over a boy.

1

It started when Mia suddenly announced:

"Girls, I have huge news! I'm officially done chasing Liam!"

The dorm went silent for a second.

"To celebrate my rebirth, I'm paying for all of us to get a besties boudoir photoshoot this Friday!"

"It's a $150-a-head premium package! The photographer is a new friend of mine, and he's booking out the entire studio just for us!"

"Everyone show up bare-faced, and make sure you bring your driver's license. The studio requires ID registration to enter."

A second later, the entire dorm erupted.

"Are you serious?! $150 a head? That's almost a thousand bucks for the six of us!"

"Mia, you finally saw the light! Happy rebirth day!"

My bottom-bunk roommate literally lunged across the room to hug her.

"Wait, hold on," our dorm president said, sitting up in bed. "Is it one of those really sexy boudoir shoots? Does it include hair and makeup?"

"Yes! Full glam and wardrobe included!"

Mia beamed proudly. "It's my friend's studio, they have top-of-the-line equipment."

"Oh my god, posing in front of a camera in lingerie... just thinking about it makes me blush."

"Wow! We're actually going to look like models, this is so exciting!"

Everyone was cheering.

I was the only one whose blood was slowly turning to ice.

Because my brain was flashing through everything Mia had done over the last three years.

She had worshipped that golden boy for three solid years.

When she got caught signing in for his attendance in lectures, she took the academic penalty for it.

For his birthday, she Venmoed him $500 and lived off dining hall crackers for the rest of the month.

Last year, when he texted her, "I dropped my phone," she borrowed money from girls across our entire floor, scrounging up $1,200 to send him.

She ate instant ramen for two months straight after that.

For three years, every single cent she had went to that guy.

And someone like that was suddenly just... done?

And could magically pull a thousand dollars out of nowhere to treat the whole dorm to a photoshoot?

Where did the money come from?

And then there was that specific sentence: "Bring your driver's license. The studio requires ID registration."

I’ve done photoshoots before.

No legitimate photography studio requires clients to register with a government ID.

I finally spoke up.

"Mia, why does the studio need our IDs?"

The dorm went quiet for half a beat.

Mia blinked innocently. "For their records. All legitimate studios do it."

"I did a shoot last year. Nobody asked for my ID."

"Well, maybe that place wasn't legit," she waved her hand dismissively, smiling. "My friend’s studio is very professional. The photos might be used for their online portfolio, so they need to register our likeness."

"What online portfolio?"

"Ugh, why are you asking so many questions?!" My bottom-bunk roommate snapped, clearly annoyed. "Chloe, she's paying for you to go for free."

I looked at Mia. "This whole thing feels extremely sketchy."

The cheering died completely.

Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at me.

"Chloe, what is your problem?"

"She finally gets over her toxic crush, and you just have to rain on her parade?"

"Seriously, you try to find a conspiracy theory in everything."

The dorm president frowned. "If you really don't want to go, just say so. Don't be such a buzzkill."

Mia didn't get mad. Instead, her smile grew even softer:

"Chloe, I know you're just trying to save me money. But I've lived the last three years feeling so miserable. I just want to treat my friends for once, okay?"

As soon as she said that, everyone immediately felt sorry for her.

I became the villain.

I shut my mouth.

There’s no point trying to reason with people when the dopamine has already taken over.

Later that night, I pulled up a screenshot on my phone.

Just one week ago, Mia had ordered delivery for that same golden boy, leaving the delivery note: "Remember to eat!