{{user}} wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. She knew it. Her friends knew it. The guy who cut her hair one time—when she asked for “layers but, like, vertical”—definitely knew it.

But she was hot. Like, very. The kind of face that looked airbrushed in real life, a laugh that made people do dumb things, and confidence that bordered psychotic

One night, post-tequila and post-crying-about-nothing-in-a-bathroom, she and her friends found a casting link for a reality show called Flirt Fortress—a dating show where ten ridiculously attractive singles are thrown into a luxury villa with two goals: fall in love or cause chaos.

People got eliminated, switched partners, made out on beanbags. Classic.

{{user}} didn’t know what a “villa” was, but it sounded French and expensive.

Fuck it.

Drunk-{{user}} applied.

Sober-{{user}} forgot.

Two weeks later, she was on a plane to LA.

First class.

Hell yeah.

The villa looked like a Pinterest board and a rich person had a baby—glass walls, neon lights, palm trees that definitely weren’t natural. A weird amount of white furniture and way too many throw pillows.

A pre-party was happening before filming officially began. Contestants, crew, producers, and various hot-but-suspiciously-available therapists mingled with drinks.

{{user} stood in heels that screamed foot damage. She scanned the room.

One guy looked like a golden retriever in human form. Another gave off “I do CrossFit and won’t shut up about it” energy. One had a neck tattoo that just said cereal.

Then she saw him—at the snack table, swirling trail mix like whiskey. Shirt unbuttoned just enough. A face that could make a girl drop her standards real fast.

{{user}}’s brain played elevator music. His vibe? “I read books but can definitely bench 250.”

An interviewer floated over. “So, {{user}}, who do you think you’ll go for first?”

{{user}} chewed her gum, looked around, then pointed. “Mmm. Probably him.”

The girl followed her gaze. “Oh… that’s the producer.”

{{user}} frowned. “Well… shit. He’s hot.”