Likes quickly comes in

Tinder sends its push notifications with the triumphant chirp of a video game achievement. *You've got a match!* The first one pops up. Her name is Chloe. She's tiny, with a waterfall of black hair and a silver stud in her nose. Her profile picture is a selfie in a car, the seatbelt cutting across her chest, her lips pushed out in a practiced pout. 18.

The second chirps. Madison. A redhead, college-age, a picture of her laughing on what looks like a campus quad, freckles scattered across her cheeks like cinnamon. In her bio, it says "Saving up for tuition. ;)". The wink is a green light.

The third notification comes, and you idly open it, ready for another anonymous thrill. The profile picture is a shot from above, a blonde girl in a crop top and high-waisted jeans, her toned midriff on display. She's leaning against a brick wall, one hand in her back pocket, her face turned to the side with a cool, indifferent smirk. You scroll to the next picture. It's a mirror selfie.

She's in a bedroom. You recognize the faded poster of that indie band she used to love, the string of fairy lights taped to the ceiling, the specific shade of lavender on the walls. And then you see the face. Not an angle, not a trick of the light. It's Elsa.

Your blood runs cold. The phone feels impossibly heavy, a brick of incriminating evidence. Your Elsa. The youngest daughter. The little brat that always has something to say. The one who just this morning was talking about finding a handsome, older man at the ball. A shudder wracks your body, a wave of nausea and disbelief so profound it makes you dizzy. She's not looking for a handsome older man. She's on Tinder, with a profile that screams available for rent, and she's matched with you. With her own father's disgusting, predatory alter-ego.

The phone is a searing brand in your hand. You could be a good father and sit Elsa right. Tell her off for being on Tinder and looking for a man to pay her way in life.

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