Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
You’ve been a bad girl, @dreammafiaqueen.
My breath catches. Somehow, my body’s decided it’s both a thrill and a threat.
Is this a joke?
My stomach twists. The profile name is simple, generic, but it’s the implication that has my heart racing. Does he know me? No. He couldn’t.
I post a comment.
Dreammafiaqueen
This is so staged it isn’t even funny, girls. Let’s stick with the book boyfriends.
Still, my finger trembles as I scroll to his profile. There’s nothing else posted. Just two videos, and somehow, it already has thousands of likes. The comments are a mess of thirsty replies.
Marry me!
Daddy vibes, omg!
Where do I sign up to be kidnapped? Asking for a friend.
Weird way to propose, but I accept.
I swallow hard, my drink forgotten on the table.
Who is this guy?
Is he mocking me?
I’ve had trolls before. It comes with the territory, but this feels different. My brain tells me it’s probably just some douche trying to cash in on the latest craze. Plenty of guys do it. They slap on a leather jacket, pull on a mask, post a thirst trap, and suddenly they’re the fantasy du jour and raking it in, especially the guys with the manly voices. Jesus, some of them are probably still in high school, and yet here we are.
But my gut says this one… this one is different.
Something about his muscles, the way he handles his weapons…seems different. Something about the way he moves, the comfortable look of him with the gun—it feels real.
I laugh to myself for even entertaining the thought that any of these men are any more real than the last, but it’s shaky, the kind of laugh that betrays how tightly wound I am. I take another sip of my beer and tell myself this is absurd—but some part of me, the part that revels in fantasy and happy endings—wonders.
I have to keep in mind there’s a difference between fantasy and reality, and there’s no reason whatsoever to believe this guy is legit.
I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it. It’s ridiculous. I don’t believe in this stuff. Not really. Sure, I love the stories, the tension, the escape they bring, but I know better than to think men like this actually exist. Men like this don’t stalk women online. They don’t care enough to play games. They’re too… busy… doing… illegal things.
Right?
My phone buzzes, breaking the spell. I glance at the screen. It’s a DM from one of my friends, Bookbabe, who always seems to catch everything before I do.
Bookbabe
Girl. This guy tagged you. He’s insane.
Yeah. What the hell?
Bookbabe
Are you freaking out? Because I’m freaking out FOR you. What if he’s legit? Do you think he’s real??
I pause, staring at her question.
Do I think he’s real?
The videos replay in my head, and I realize I don’t have an answer. Of course he’s real. There’s no telltale watery abs that indicate AI, no whispery hint of a fake. But I know what she means.
Be careful what you wish for.
I open his profile again, my heart in my throat as I watch his follower count climb like a silent army. Thousands of strangers are seeing my name next to his threat, and every second that passes makes it feel more… real. My name, dreammafiaqueen, is still in the caption like a goddamn beacon, drawing even more attention. I note that his likes are all public, and every one of them are all my videos.
And even as his follower numbers soar, who he follows remains…one.
Me.
My chest tightens, my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in.
There’s only one way to find out if this is a joke.
I click the message button, and my thumbs hover over the keyboard. For a moment, I hesitate. My rational brain screams at me to close the app, to forget his smirk and the promise in his words. But the part of me that craves excitement and the attention of a man just like him—the part that reads the books I do—whispers, just one more message. It’s fiction. It’s harmless.
I type the words before I can stop myself.
But before I can hit send, the app pings with another tag. My breath stalls as another video fills the screen.
No. This can’t be happening.
Oh my god. It’s him again, but this time, there’s no leather jacket, nothing but his bare chest, and what a bare chest it is. Unlike the other men who cover shit up with leather jackets or hoodies, he’s ripped. Strong, powerful hands anchored on his hips, jeans just low enough to show the hint of dark hair.
My mouth is dry. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. The other videos hinted at how built he was, but…
I choke on a strangled scream as comment after comment pours in.
Do you need a baby mama? Do we need to keep your line of DNA open for the sake of populating the earth? I’m single.