He's A 10, But…

Chapter 1

Brenda

I sign up for the dating app on a Tuesday right after midnight because I don’t have anything better to do., halfway through a bag of mini marshmallows and a mental breakdown.

In my defense, I thought I was signing up for research, not romance. Also, I’m too caffeinated. I’ve had three cups of overly sweet coffee in four hours. 

Also in my defense: the marshmallows were expired. So if I die, it won’t be from heartbreak—it’ll be from sugar poisoning and professional desperation.

The app is called EVE—which is probably short for something douchey like Emotion Validation Engine or Eternal Valentine Experiment, I don’t know. The branding screams tech bro trying to sell intimacy, which offends me both as a woman and as a writer.

But I need this.

Not the love. God, no. I need the content.

My agent has stopped returning my calls. My publisher just emailed a breezy, “Hope you’re doing well!” which is publishing code for we’re about to drop your ass. And my word count for the romance novel I was supposed to turn in two months ago? Currently sitting at “Chapter One: Love is Trash. The End.”

So yeah. I need material. Chaos. Something stupid to spark my creativity. Something ridiculous like—

“Congratulations,” the app says in a silky voice as I hit Submit Application. “You’ve been approved for EVE’s exclusive closed beta.”

Wait. Already?

I frown at the screen, licking powdered sugar off my thumb. That was fast. Suspiciously fast. Like the AI took one look at my heartbreak-saturated soul and said, Yep. She’s ripe for algorithmic reprogramming.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the welcome screen. It’s minimalist—black background, white text, probably designed by someone who thinks emotions are inefficient. Which, according to their very icy-looking CEO, they are.

Ugh. Him.

Joshua Graves.

Founder of EVE Corp. Tech billionaire. Emotionally unavailable in a way that’s almost performative. The kind of man who would attend a funeral and ask for a performance review on the eulogy.

I once trashed his entire philosophy in an interview. Called his dating app “an emotionless spreadsheet in lipstick.” And now I’m giving him access to my romantic history?

Kill me.

But desperation is louder than pride. And more importantly, this isn’t about love.

It’s about inspiration.

My plan is simple:

1. Go on terrible algorithm-generated dates.
   
   
2. Write hilariously scathing blog posts about them.
   
   
3. Go viral.
   
   
4. Finish my damn book.
   
   
5. Profit.
   
   

I log into the dashboard and skim the user agreement. “EVE uses predictive behavioral data to simulate optimal romantic matches.”

Translation: We spy on your habits and throw you at someone with a complementary trauma profile.

I skip the rest. I’ve been on enough apps to know how this ends—with me holding a cocktail, nodding through a guy’s TED Talk about Bitcoin while fantasizing about homicide.

My phone dings.

MATCH FOUND: Meet Daniel. Sunset Cafe. 7PM.

Jesus. That’s tomorrow. 

Perfect. I have time to practice my fake optimism, and find my lucky “I Swear I’m Not Crazy” lipstick.

The Sunset Cafe is trying to be romantic but ends up looking like an IKEA ad that took a turn. Everything is beige and quiet and filled with couples who look like they haven’t laughed in six years.

Daniel is already seated when I arrive, and he's... well, he’s definitely wearing a turtleneck. A full-on charcoal-gray Steve Jobs moment, like he's ready to pitch his startup and also emotionally neglect me for three years.

He stands to greet me. “Brenda?”

I smile. “That’s me.”

He smiles back. “You’re prettier than your profile photo.”

“Oh, thanks. You’re... exactly as filtered as yours.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Red flag number one.

We sit. He orders for me without asking. Red flag number two.

He starts the conversation by listing every one of his ex-girlfriends in chronological order. Red flag numbers three through seventy-five.

Somewhere between “Veronica left because I was too emotionally mature and she doesn’t like my puppet” and “Karen didn’t understand my needs as a Pisces,” I text my best friend under the table.

ME: kill me. or call me. fake emergency. anything.

LANA: haha. no. suffer for art.

I glare at the screen.

Daniel pauses his monologue. “Are you texting your therapist?”

I blink. “No... why would you think—?”

“I just think mental health is really important, especially for someone who writes about... you know, feelings.”

Ah. So he has Googled me.

That’s not creepy at all.

I grin tightly. “I don’t just write about feelings. I weaponize them.”

He laughs nervously. “That’s funny.”

“Wasn’t a joke.”

The date ends with a limp handshake and him saying, “We should do this again.” I say “Sure,” and mentally delete his number before I’ve even stood up.

Back home, I throw off my heels, grab a glass of wine, and open my laptop.

Blog Post Title: Date One: Turtlenecks and Emotional Trauma, A Love Story

As I write, something wild happens—I smile.

Real, actual joy. Like I just tasted good cheese or remembered my therapist’s Wi-Fi password.

For the first time in months, I feel something click.

Not in my heart. Not in my ovaries. But in my soul.

This isn’t a love story. It’s a war.

And I’m about to win.

What I don’t know yet—what I can’t possibly know—is that the icy CEO of this entire operation is watching my profile right now.

Reading my messages.

Analyzing my smile.

And already rewriting my next match.