Page 132 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“That’s typical Astrid bullshit,” Reece says.

“Play it. The whole damn internet already has. Eighty million views in twelve hours.”

Reece tapsPlay, and it displays blurry, shaky footage—undoubtedly filmed with a hidden camera. The middeck of yesterday’s catamaran comes into view, rocking slightly. Astrid appears on screen, her gold bikini glinting, and my throat tightens.

“I gotta ask,” she says, voice honeyed with fake innocence, “does Reece even realize you’ve been playing him from the start?”

And then—

There I am.

“I’m not going to lie. I’m using him.”

A dramaticDUN DUN DUNsound effect blasts from the tiny speaker, making Gordon flinch. Bold red text flashes on the display: SHE SAID IT HERSELF!

“I didn’t say that!” I grab Reece’s forearm. “She’s taking it out of context! That’s not what I—”

Reece shrugs off my grip without looking at me, his eyes locked on to the video with razor-sharp intensity. Panic turns my body into a trembling disaster zone, radiating out from my gut to my shaky fingertips.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

The video mercilessly continues.

On screen, Astrid’s manicured hand tosses her blonde extensions over one shoulder. “So you’re telling me this relationship is the perfect setup for your little documentary channel?”

“Yes, I’ve calculated how his endorsement could help my career. I’ve thought about his followers becoming my audience.”

“You’ve been playing the long game. You’re hungry for those subscribers.”

“Only a complete idiot would ignore the professional opportunities that have fallen in my lap!”

I taste copper—I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek so hard it’s bleeding. Each spoken word is another nail in my coffin. I recognize fragments of what I actually said, viciously dissected and reconstructed into something monstrous. A grotesque puppet show starring me.

“What’s the exit strategy? Wait until he promotes your channel, build your starter audience, then release a tear-jerking breakup video?”

“There will be a messy public breakup to boost my career. Reece is a steppingstone. He’s disposable. And when my channel launches, it’s gonna be huge. I’m just a social climber chasing the money.”

Those aren’t my words—not in that order, not with that meaning, not with that intent.

The footage transitions with a star-wipe effect to Astrid sitting in her hotel room.

“Reece, baby,” she says softly, voice thick with manufactured emotion, “I am so sorry you had to find out this way. I really, really hoped I was wrong, but the receipts don’t lie. You are being played. Camila Morales doesn’t love you. She loves what you can do for her. We may not be lovers anymore, but we’re friends, and I find this disgusting.”

Bold white text fills the screen: #CancelCamila #SaveReece

Astrid leans in for effect with exaggerated sympathy. “DareSquad, hear me loud and clear. If you care about Reece like I do—and I mean, Ireallycare—you won’t let a fame-hungry nobody keep playing him. Y’all know what to do. Take. Her. Down.”

The video cuts to black.

“That’s not true!” I blurt, my voice cracking. “She edited that to make me sound awful. Those weren’t my words, not like that!”

Reece is stone cold, his face unreadable. “So you’renotleaving to start your own channel.”

“I… I was planning on telling you,” I whisper, each word scraping my throat like broken glass.

“She put in her two weeks’ notice before you left for Hawaii,” Gordon says, blunt and brutal. “Sorry, kid. I thought Cam was the best solution for you, but clearly I fucked up. And the fans? They’re out for blood. Listen to these comments.”

He scrolls reading them aloud:

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