Page 70 of Mine Again
But no. A sea of terrible openers and profile photos with sunglasses and flexed biceps floods the feed. One man is holding a fish. Another is… why is he shirtless on a tractor?
“This is what I get for trying to date outside the Mafia,” I mutter.
Still, I tap one message open. Then another. And another.
The more I scroll, the clearer it becomes. There’s a reason I set the bar so low. Because apparently, that’s still too high.
Seriously, I’m done.
I won’t allow my life to become… this… this absurd.
Besides, Sebastian gave me his number. And despite his aura of superiority, he’s becoming an increasingly attractive option.
I tap to delete the account but hesitate.
For curiosity’s sake, I open my profile.
I blink, leaning closer.
No way.
This isn’t… mine. Is it?
The photo is. But the text?
Did my profile get hijacked by a reality show contestant?
Isabella, 22.
Curves in all the right places, confidence, and chaos. Gym is life. Bonus points if you’ve got alpha energy and own at least one protein shaker.
Family is everything, especially loud, tight-knit ones. The closer, the better. Like, zero personal space kind of close.
Looking for someone who knows what they want and isn’t afraid to take it.
I lift. I love. I don’t play games (unless it’s strip poker).
Dislikes: weak coffee, weaker men.
DM me if you’ve got gains, goals, and a good jawline.
What the actual hell?
Who did this? Clearly someone had their fun with it.
Gym is life? I hate the gym with a passion. Always have, always will.
Father made us go at least three times a week with a personal female trainer so we’d always look our best. Since his death, I haven’t set foot in one.
Why would anybody mess with dating profiles?
Don’t they have better things to do? Like, I don’t know, swindle people out of their life savings?
Bastards. No wonder the messages are garbage.
If this app is so easily hackable, it has to go.
Disgusted, I exit the app, right-click the icon, and hit “Uninstall.” And just like that, it’s gone.
