Couples Training – Popular Girl

The contest wasn’t new. Its roots went back nearly a decade, born out of some half-serious sociology experiment that was supposed to test “interpersonal cooperation under shared domestic strain.” Everyone thought it would be a one-off, a paper for the archives of some tenure-hungry professor. But the first year had been such an unholy spectacle—scandals, heartbreaks, fights, a marriage proposal gone viral—that the university board couldn’t bring themselves to kill it. Instead, it metastasized into an annual rite, braided into Riverview’s culture as firmly as the autumn harvest festival or the spring flood panic.

Now it had a name—an official one, stamped on flyers in bold crimson letters: The Cohabitation Challenge.

Of course, no one called it that. Students had their own names. “The Couples Game.” “Marriage U.” “The Apartment Lottery.” Everyone had an opinion, and everyone wanted to know who was with whom. It was half reality show, half blood sport, and all of Riverview was the audience.

Walking across the cobbled streets toward the designated building felt like approaching a stage already set for drama. The air itself carried a charge, thick with chatter spilling from open windows and sun-lit balconies.

“Did you hear Marcus Lau’s with Dana Rivas? She’s already redecorating their entire apartment. Poor guy’s doomed.”

“Pfft, that’s nothing. Jared got paired with Naomi Black. She made her last boyfriend sign a chore contract in triplicate.”

Snickers and howls of laughter followed. A pair of guys leaned halfway out a dormitory window, hurling down advice like carnival barkers. “Don’t forget to fight about curtains, lovebirds!” one called. “Blue means breakup by week two!” the other added, clutching his sides.

Everywhere you looked, couples staggered under futons and box fans, clattering up stairwells or blocking doorways with dramatic arguments over who got the bigger closet. Some pairs clung to each other already, all hands and syrupy declarations, performing romance as though Riverview’s gossip mill were a panel of judges. A couple outside your building kissed so loudly you could hear the slap of it from across the street, determined to prove they were frontrunners in a competition that wasn’t supposed to have frontrunners. Another pair walked by with their fingers entwined, smirking like they’d already cracked the code.

The deeper you went, the stranger it felt. It wasn’t just about cohabitation—it was reputation alchemy. Everyone wanted to see who would flame out spectacularly, who would limp through the semester with mutual detestation, and who might—God forbid—stumble into something genuine. To fail was humiliating; to succeed meant whispers, respect, maybe even notoriety.

By the time you reached the apartment complex—a sagging old brick edifice patched with new paint—you could feel your nerves knotting. The corridors buzzed with nervous energy, the faint tang of fresh varnish mingling with the scent of cheap takeout cartons littering the hall. Open doors framed little vignettes of chaos: couples bickering, laughing, negotiating territory as if drafting peace treaties.

And then there it was—your door. Brass numbers polished until they gleamed, like the universe was mocking you.

The key felt heavier than it should have, biting into your palm as you slid it into the lock.

Inside, the scene was exactly what you feared. Exactly, in fact, what you should have expected from Lyla Ghianni.

She was draped across the couch like a glossy magazine spread—limbs elegant, hair spilling like ink across her shoulder. Around her lay a scatter of half-unpacked boxes, and on the coffee table sat a neat little monument to arrogance: a stacked pile of crisp bills, bound with rubber bands. She didn’t even glance up at the sound of the door. Her manicured fingers toyed with the cash, flicking through notes as if tallying an empire.

*When she finally spoke, her voice was a groan, heavy with contempt.? “So you’re the one I’m stuck with?”

The words slid under your skin, sharpened by her practiced indifference—the kind of disdain you didn’t earn, but that she distributed freely, like perfume.

“I’ll be honest—” she snapped a rubber band tight around the stack, the sound like a whip crack in the still air “—the only reason I’m even here is because Daddy cut me off his credit cards for a while. Something about ‘learning responsibility.’” She rolled her eyes so far back you thought she might dislocate them. “He thinks this contest is character-building. Whatever.”

She might have gone back to ignoring you then, folding herself into that languid superiority. But instead, she sat up slowly, crossing her legs with deliberate grace, and looked at you properly for the first time. Her eyes were sharp—glittering, even—and behind the calculation you saw amusement.

“...Still,” she said, her voice smoothing into something cool and transactional, “for the sake of the challenge, I can be... civil.”

From the pile on the table she plucked a smaller bundle of bills and held it up like an offering. Or maybe bait.

“Five hundred. Our starter fund for furniture. Apparently, it’s the first hurdle.”

She let the bills dangle in the air between you, her gaze unwavering. It wasn’t an olive branch. It was a test.

And as the laughter of other “couples” echoed faintly down the corridor, you understood something unsettling: this wasn’t just about winning Riverview’s twisted little game. It was about surviving Lyla Ghianni—and whatever kind of story she intended to spin you into.