She put on her red coat, the one the heroines always wore.
But the romantic fiction collection on her phone had rewritten her expectations. It had convinced her that reality was just a poorly plotted rough draft—and that the algorithm could edit it into a masterpiece. She put on her red coat, the one the heroines always wore
Amelia had always dismissed the ads. “Read steamy romance on NovelCat!” they’d blare, featuring chiseled men clutching heroines on windswept moors. She was a graduate student in Comparative Literature. Her idea of romance was Proust, not pixels. She put on her red coat