Page 141 of Hawaii Can Suck It

And in struts Astrid Montclair.

Her outfit is a masterclass in showing skin—a yellow bandage dress vacuum-sealed to her body, highlighting every surgically perfected curve, with cutouts exposing way too much spray-tanned skin. Stilettos jack her up six inches, and her red soles hit the floor like warning flares with each calculated step.

“What the fuck?”

Gordon pulls out the chair beside me, and she takes his hand with a smirk, her viper-like confidence radiating as she sits. “G-Thorne always gives it to you straight. This isn’t about Astrid, though yeah, her numbers are blowing up. It’s not about camera girl’s takedown video, which is viral as fuck.”

A sharp pang hits me thinking about all the online hate Camila’s getting. Yeah, she played me, but she was only chasing what she thought mattered. I’m pissed off, but… no one deserves cyber hate like this. I’ve been there—it’s brutal, even when you kinda have it coming.

Gordon claps a hand on my shoulder. “This is about giving a hungry audience what they expect—you and Astrid back together. For real this time. Kid, everything we’ve done has led to this. They’re shipping you two. Hashtag ASStreece has over seventy million impressions. She’s your golden ticket.”

“I break the internet for breakfast,” she says, her baby-talk voice at odds with the calculating look in her eyes. “Come on, Reece. You and me? We’re social media crack.”

There’s churning in my gut, and acid climbs up my throat—my body is physically rejecting the Astrid pitch. But what choice do I have? Hundreds of jobs on the line. Millions in investments. Real people with real bills.

But for some inexplicable reason, at this moment of peak desperation, I hear Cam’s voice in my head.

From the shuttle, driving past Lahaina:“You don’t ever really know if your efforts will help. But that doesn’t mean you don’t try. Not everything needs a million likes to make a difference.”

“Not everything needs a million likes to make a difference,” I declare to a room full of people but mostly to myself. The truth of the words burns my tongue.

I rise to my feet, my chair scraping against the floor with a dramatic screech that perfectly punctuates this moment of clarity.

“I was serious about the text I sent you last night, Gordon,” I announce, my voice leveling out. “Effective immediately, we’re changing content strategies. No more clickbait. We’re focusing on giving back.”

I turn to the screen, facing the grid of shocked executives directly. “I want us to be a company that produces something meaningful. It’s scary to switch strategies, but I’ve spent the last two weeks really thinking about what matters—for me and for everyone who depends on the Dare brand.”

My pulse pounds in my ears as the words tumble out. “No more fast fashion that trashes the planet. No more energy drinks loaded with chemicals no one can pronounce. No more trending bullshit. Everything we put the DARE brand on from this moment forward will be customer-focused, earth-conscious, and built with purpose.”

I take a breath. Twenty stunned faces stare back at me from the monitor, in awe’ve-seen-this-before, this-has-to-be-a-prankexpression. And then—

Clapping.

It’s the dad from earlier, the one who got interrupted by his daughter needing to go poo-poo. He’s sitting in his kitchen, smiling, hands coming together in steady applause.

Then someone else joins in. Then another. And suddenly, the whole screen is clapping.

“Gordon, you swore this was a lock if I posted that vid.” Astrid’s voice is a blade slicing through the applause. “Seriously, what the hell is happening?”

“Not now, Astrid,” Gordon hisses, his usually smooth face flushing red. Wrinkles, suppressed by years of cosmetic intervention, break through.

My eyes narrow. “Tell me straight—did you make that deal with her? Because if that’s the case… you’re done.”

“Don’t threaten me, kid,” he says, voice dangerous. “I didn’t promise Astrid anything.”

Blaze lets out a long, slow whistle. “Uh, that’s a load of shit, G-Thorne. You’re straight-up lying.”

I swivel toward him. “Bro, what are you talking about?”

Blaze fiddles with his phone, thumbs flying across the screen. “Gordon was making all the promises when I caught him fucking Astrid last night. I got it on video, see?”

He holds out his phone, and I take it with a sense of morbid curiosity. The screen shows a hotel balcony view—presumably filmed during Blaze’s ill-fated romantic mission. The footage is a bit shaky, but there’s no mistaking what I’m seeing: a very sweaty, very hairy Gordon Thorne, his suit pants bunched around his ankles, enthusiastically banging a clearly bored Astrid.

“I’m gonna make you a superstar!” Gordon’s voice echoes from the phone speaker. “You and this hot ass will be bigger than Reece!”

“I want my own clothing line and my makeup in Sephora.” She pauses. “And an album.”

“You wanna be a singer?” Gordon pants. “Prove it. Scream my name.”

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