Hawaii Can Suck It (Hot Mess Summer #2)

CHAPTER ONE

CAM

Oh shit! Mierda! I curse, smacking my head on an oversized flower arrangement. Im crouched upside down with one leg out, awkwardly wedged between a gaudy vase full of plastic white roses and a candelabra thats begging to catch fire.

The GoPro camera nearly slips from my hands as I fumble to mount it to the floral monstrosity. Go ahead and fall. I dare you. Ill edit you into Reeces blooper reel.

I rub the sore spotmy forehead crying out in pain as I scan the empty church. Thank God no one heard me cursing in Spanish. The last thing I need is to be struck by lightning before I get these cameras set up.

I bet God himself couldnt find me in this glitter-pocalypse.

Lord, in case I die here, its me, Camila Morales. I apologize in advance for how many times I will be taking your name in vain today.

Seriously. Every surface of this historic church has been bedazzled within an inch of its holy lifewhich tracks since its the Super Bowl of influencer weddings starring YouTubes crown prince Reece Dare and Astrid Montclair, the Queen of Extra.

With this much sparkle, as soon as we start filming, the collective glare might just set the whole place on fire.

But hey, if that happens, at least well go viral.

One hundred and fifty million subscribers are waiting to watch this train wreI mean, beautiful union of two content creators whose entire relationship has been scripted, filtered, and presented in 8K resolution.

And I am the lucky videographer whos capturing every moment of this totally authentic love story. Two years of filming their staged kisses and manufactured spontaneous moments.

Come on, you sparkly bastard, I mutter, fighting a zip tie to anchor the GoPro to this nightmare bouquet (because naturally, Astrid made me spray glitter glue on them to match her aesthetic).

My cargo pants swish as I grab gaffers tape to secure the camera. These babies are my pride and joytwelve pockets of pure organizational heaven. Right thigh: battery packs organized like a SWAT team on standby. Left thigh: emergency ring lights because God forbid we have subpar lighting during a crisis. Front pockets: enough caffeine shots to make a med student jealous.

The utility belt on my waist should have its own documentary series. If these pouches could talk well, theyd need their own NDAs. Ive got more equipment strapped to my body than Batman, except instead of fighting crime, Im battling nip slips and influencer breakdowns.

I step away to assess my handiwork, but Im blinded by the over-the-top iridescent sea of decorations. Everything shimmers in here like a mermaids assno, a radioactive jellyfish. Either way, the church walls shift between lavender, gold, and hot pinkits a highlighter palette on steroids.

Still, my GoPro stands proud and defiant amid the expensive holographic chaos. Victory! But at what cost? My cargo pants, which usually act as my fortress of practicality, are now covered in silver glitter. I look like I got down on my knees and serviced a unicorn.

Pulling out my phone, I open the video monitor app and check my framing. Wide shot from the back? Check.

Side cameras positioned to record the audiences staged reactions ? Check.

Roaming close-ups thatll catch important moments like Astrids spray tan streaking? All Me.

Because the money shots cant be trusted with stationary equipment. Still, somethings missing.

I need one more angle, a Gods-eye view of the wedding march. My gaze travels up the massive stone pillarsornately carved bases that are wider than my apartments bathroomand I see a perfect ledge for my camera. Scaling these architectural masterpieces is all but impossible. Every. Single. Inch of them is smothered in twinkly lights and crystal garlands.

Okay, Cam, think. I reach up, fingers grasping at the nearest pillars base. Nope. Not even close. Unless I magically sprout six more feet, this isnt happening. If I had a ladder, I could rig a selfie stick and zip tie the lens then monitor the shot from my phone.

Hmm. Gotta get creative. These cameras arent going to mount themselves, and Im capturing the wedding of the century. Or at least the wedding of the week. The internet has the attention span of a TikTok goldfish, so who knows?

Ive filmed Reece jumping between rooftops, swimming with sharks, and once, memorably, provoking a troop of monkeys while dressed as a giant banana. But this ? This might be my greatest challenge yet.

Hey, God, quick question. You cool with me doing parkour in your house?

I shoot a swift glance. Coast is clear. This is why I showed up hours before call timeto put out fires before they become full-blown infernos. Gripping the side of a clear acrylic chair, I drag it across the church floor.

SCCCRREEEECH!

Jesus, Mary, and Influencer Joseph, that was loud. The sound ricochets off the stained-glass windows that have probably witnessed centuries of better decisions than the one Im about to make. My hands hesitate on the chair back, evaluating the towering pillar.

Deep breaths. Lets do this. I grab the scrunchie off my wrist. There is always, ALWAYS a scrunchie on standby. I have three backup options nestled in my cargo pockets this very second. Because after youve had your hair tangled in a drone mid-flight while dangling off the side of a mountain, you come prepared.

That, and well I learned in college that a hand job can accidentally double as a hair appointment. Who knew magical man juice could pass for premium hair gel? I wont be sharing that life hack in Astrids next beauty secrets revealed video.

I gather my long chestnut waves into a high ponytail, the familiar motion centering me like meditation. My fingers glide through my strands, catching the faint coconut scent from this mornings shower. The way Im sweating, I better savor whatevers left of that fresh feeling.

My gaze drifts up the column again, mentally calculating angles and handholds as if Im a stunt double. This shouldnt even register on my danger scale. Ive literally hung off helicoptersone time to get the perfect shot of Reece bungee jumping into an active volcano. Okay, fine, it was dormant, but still my brain has a point.

Another day at the office, I mutter, testing the seats stability. The plastic creaks ominously under my Converse. This is why I wore cargo pants with reinforced knees today. You know, for occasional pillar climbing and other normal wedding videographer to-dos.

Teenage me would be losing her shit right now. Back then, I was just another film nerd with a borrowed camera and a dream, watching Reeces uploads as if they were sacred teachings. While other girls were freeze-framing his abs (which, okay, fair) , I was pausing videos frame by frame, studying his innovative cinematography and groundbreaking editing techniques.

And now look at me. I snort-laugh, pulling my body up onto the ledge.

Twenty-five-year-old me gets to film with Reece rebranded (featuring twenty percent more disappointment) . My one-time idol now does authentic morning routines that take longer to shoot than most feature films. Heres a secret: nobody does their skincare routine while gazing soulfully out floor-to-ceiling windows from their mega mansion at sunrise. Nobody.

The worst part isnt even that hes traded storytelling for brand deals. Its who he is in real life. That charming, adventurous guy who inspired me to pick up a camera? Turns out, the guy is as phony as Astrids platinum blonde hair and double D-cups. The actual Reece Dare has two modes: brooding silence and cutting criticism. The only way I see that famous million-dollar smile directed at me is when Im watching it through my viewfinder.

Mierda! My foot slips. I lunge, my arms gripping the rhinestone-covered support beam, cheeks pressed into the cold stone, gemstones scratching my skin.

Okay. Not dead. Thats good.

But hanging on to this pillar like a sequined koala? Less good.

A fall from this height would put me in a full-body cast for sure. Reeces voice plays in my head, all gruff and judgmental: Maybe next time, plan better, Morales. I can already picture myself strapped to a hospital bed and him barking: Edit with your toes if you have to.

Not helpful, imaginary Reece.

I glance at the camera dangling from my belt. Almost there. I just need to zip-tie it to the top. Totally doable.

My foot scrapes against the pillar. Glitter showers down like Ive taken out a piata. I tiptoe higher, legs shaking, fingers cramping. One arm holds the GoPro, while the other clings to the pole. Its a delicate balancing act that reminds me of those carnival games that are rigged so you never win. But I refuse to lose.

Up. Up. Up. I stretch, forcing my camera higher.

One more inch.

One more tug.

Pull it tight.

Got it!

My thighs burn. My arms scream. But before I can figure out a plan to climb down, my phone blares in my pocket.

brRRING! brRRING!

Oh, come on.

My toe manages to find the edge of the ledge, still dangling precariously as I fumble for my cell. The caller ID reads: CPK Forever .

Katie and Petra. My girls. My lifelines. The name is a tribute to our college obsession with California Pizza Kitchen. Also, our initials: Cam, Petra, Katie.

I swipe to answer, my free hand gripping the pillar. Hola , besties! I say, holding the phone at an awkward angle to keep my face in frame. Dont mind me. Just hanging on by a thread. Or a pole. Take your pick.

Katie appears first, glowing in soft blonde waves, her green eyes sparkling. Petra pops up nextjet-black hair in a messy bunlooking every bit the punk rock troublemaker she is.

Cam, babe, whats with the sparkly forehead? Petra squints at me, grinning. Is this a special wedding request from your boss, or did you headbutt a strippers chest?

Katie tilts her head, eyes narrowing. More importantly, why does it look like youre one bad decision away from another ER visit?

Because I am, I deadpan, tilting my phone down to reveal the tiny ledge beneath my feet. Welcome to influencer hell. Its glamorousno, really.

There you go again, being all brave and shit. Petra smirks through the screen, her red lipstick impeccable as she leans back in her office chair. You shouldve quit after that skydiving proposal video. Gone out on a literal high note.

Shes right, Katie adds. The scenic vineyards of Tuscany behind her are a postcard come to life. If Ive learning anything on my spontaneous trip to Italy, its that there is no time like the present to pursue what you want.

Buckle up, here it comes. Petra rolls her heavily lined eyes. Kidding. I usually ignore Katies cheerleading, but shes right. You gotta chase those documentary dreams. Face it, youre now the reckless friend while Im stuck here optimizing synergy or whatever corporate BS Im supposed to care about.

I know, I know, I say, adjusting my grip. Soon. I promise.

The lie sits heavy in my chest next to the two-weeks-notice email I sent Reeces manager, Gordon Thorne, this morning. Its probably burning a hole through his perfectly gelled mid-life hair right now. But I cant tell them. Not yet. Not when my big dreams feel about as stable as my current position on this bedazzled pillar of doom.

My stomach churns as I think about what Im planning: A documentary YouTube channel. Something real. Something important. Not another I Survived 24 Hours Living Like a Hamster video.

Ugh. I can still smell the cedar wood shavings from that shoot.

The dreams been lurking in my Notes app for months. Story ideas. Shot lists. Production contacts. Everything I need except the one thing that matterscourage.

When I was in college, I won an award for a short film I did on after-school meals and underprivileged children. It was in my hometown of New York City, and my sister Aria snuck me into the kitchen where she volunteered. Ill never forget the way those kids faces lit up at their first hot meal of the dayit was pure, unfiltered joy. Not influencer weddings or rich people pretending to be in love for brand dealsreal moments, genuine lives, and actual impact. Those are the stories I want to tell.

But success on YouTube isnt simply talent and good ideas. Its algorithms and analytics and convincing the internet that your content has more value than videos of cats knocking things off tables. Which, lets be honest, is a tough sell.

And, Id never say this out loud, but Im not exactly comfortable in front of the camera.

This is why I need Reece. A single mention from hima mere thirty seconds of that stupidly gorgeous face telling his followers to check out my channeland boom. Instant audience.

But asking Reece for favors? Might as well ask a grizzly bear to share his salmon.

While hes hibernating.

After youve just woken him up.

Still, a couple weeks of honeymooning in Hawaii has to soften him up, right? Nothing says help a girl out like mai tais and newlywed coital bliss. Assuming he doesnt murder me when he finds out Im quitting.

Petras voice is a whip snapping through my thoughts. Cam! Are you frozen? This is what I get for being so poor I had to switch to Budget Wireless.

Yeah, no, sorry.

I blink, the ache in my thighs dragging me back to reality. My legs are trembling under the strain of this ridiculous position.

We need details, Katie pleads. Tell us about the wedding. The honeymoon.

Hard pass, I groan. Lets talk about you and the Italian Stallion tour guide. Your thirst traps are killing me but not giving enough. Spill it.

Same, Petra chimes in. My Instagram feed needs more spicy pics of you two.

Katies cheeks flame red. Its not what you think. Matteos my tour guide. Hes just helping me make Jared jealous. You know, so I can win him back.

My heart crumples like a discarded storyboard. It hurts to see my friend in denial. Katies fianc just dumped her, but is she moving on? Not a chance. Instead of having revenge sex with hot Italian guys, shes trying to get back together. After bailing on their engagement, Jared is forever on my shit list.

Id be climbing that Italian eggplant, I say. Sorry, ya girl has been in a major sex drought. The most action Ive seen lately is my cameras low battery vibration.

PETRA! a mans voice booms off-screen. I need that TPS report on the Johson account, and I need it now.

She blinks like shes counting to ten. Its coming, jeez! Keep your shirt on, bro! Petra promptly dives under her desk and whispers like the walls are bugged and she knows too much. Speaking of droughts, whats your hottie boss wearing for the wedding? A tux jacket minus the shirt? Maybe a bow tie and board shorts? Can we talk about his lickable abs?

Id ask Petra how her new jobs going, but shes hiding under the desk, so I think that answers that. Working at her brothers company was meant to be a fresh start, a chance to show her family shes not a screw-up. Her pile of problems goes beyond her massive crush on co-CEO Bryce Sterling (AKA her brothers billionaire best friend) , theres also the nonstop tension with her big bro. Yeah, her whole adulting comeback might be circling the drain.

I groan. My prickwad douchecanoe boss can wear a banana hammock around his schlong. All I care about is surviving this day, flying to Hawaii, and getting my lady bits some much-needed attention on my workcation.

Katies eyes go wide. Um, arent you filming your boss at a couples-only honeymoon resort? How are you getting laid?

There has to be at least one Hawaiian hottie willing to show me his

Tiki torch? Petra finishes for me.

Exactly!

Are you planning to seduce lifeguards with your tactical cargo pants? Katie snickers. Although my Aunt Deb would probably suggest using those zip ties as kinky handcuffs.

Hell no. Ive got five sizzling bikinis packed and ready to hit the beach. And my sexy sleepwear collection is so skimpy, its one step away from imaginary.

Hunt down that Hawaiian D! Petra cheers.

Oh, I plan to go full predator mode. Im gonna climb every cabana boy at that resort like a coconut tree. I want the entire Hawaiian buffetappetizer, main course, dessert. Any guy who wants a piece of this curvy Latina ass better grab a number, because mamas got six months of pent-up

Mm-hmm. A familiar throat clears below me.

Its a deep, disapproving rumble. Uh-oh.

There he is Reece fucking Dare.

Ay, Dios mo! The Spanish flies out, and I let go of the support beam as if its suddenly on fire.

WHAM!

I slam into Reeces chest in the worlds most unexpected trust fall. His arms wrap around me like steel cables, strong and unyielding. For a man who spends most of his time laughing in the face of gravity, Reece Dare unexpectedly cradles me as if Im fragile? No, that cant be right.

My cell is still clutched in a death grip, and Katie and Petra are frozen in perfect oh shit expressions. I slam the End Call button so hard I probably crack my screen.

His steel-blue eyes lock on to mine

with the intensity of a shark

who just saw me double dipping

and then caught me peeing in his section of the ocean.

And if he wasnt already gorgeous enough, a beam of sunlighton cueshines through the stained glass, hitting his jawline as if God himself is his personal lighting director.

His dark, tousled hair slightly covers the scar above his right eyebrowearned from one of my favorite videos, Will It Bounce? Trampoline Edition and it only adds to his whole brooding-but-fuck-Im-sexy vibe.

For just a millisecond, I forget how to breathe. Maybe its the rush of cheating death, or maybe his scenta heady combination of ocean saltwater and spicy gingerhas hijacked my senses. My cheek grazes his shoulder, and yep, thats pure muscle under the thin layer of fabric.

Hed be absolutely perfect if

Is scaling church property while discussing your sexual conquests part of your normal pre-wedding routine?

if he never opened his mouth.

Oh definitely, I say, ignoring how his arms flex as I try to wriggle loose. Jesus and I were just having a heart-to-heart about my upcoming romance-cation.

His darkening expression is an incoming storm. About that conversation

My personal itinerary? I say, breaking free and immediately missing his warmth. Disloyal body. Dont worry, Ill schedule all my Hawaiian hookups around your content calendar. I wont be the third wheel crashing your honeymoon vibes. Im nothing if not professional!

Theres a fleeting spark of surprise in his gaze before hes back to his default perma-scowl.

If youre done cosplaying as a holy acrobat, he growls, jabbing a finger toward my camera, maybe fix that disaster of an angle. Youre going to miss half the processional.

Oh no he didnt. I risked my life for that shot. I thrust my cell at him. Prepare to eat your words with a side of I was wrong sauce.

His fingers brush mine as he takes the phonea quick, incidental touch, but it sends goosebumps skittering up my arm.

Double shit.

There on my lock screen, in all their glistening glory, is my collage of Hawaiian beach hotties. Surfboards optional, abs mandatory. My finger flies to the sensor, but its too lateReece has already gotten an eyeful of my tropical thirst board.

Reeces eyebrow performs its signature judgmental arch. Location research?

Not that its any of your business, but yes, I fully intend to enjoy my workcation after this circus of a wedding. Umbrella drinks. Beach views. Might even do a hula lesson.

Dont forget the cabana boys, he says, the sarcasm dripping from every word.

Trust me, I wont. I shoot him a pointed look, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. Now, are you going to admit my shot is perfect, or are we still pretending you know more about wide angles than I do?

Reece glances at the monitor app open on my phone, his jaw tightening as he studies the feed. He simply stares like hes looking for something to criticize.

Finally, he grunts. Its... acceptable.

Acceptable? I gasp, palm to my heart. Whoa, thanks. Thats a standing ovation coming from you. I better bust out my victory dance before you ruin it.

Dont push it, Morales, he says, handing the phone back. For a split second, a grudgingmaybe even amusedlook flickers across his face. But its gone just as fast, and he turns on his heel without another word.

For a guy about to marry the love of his life , hes carrying enough storm clouds to cancel a Hawaiian luau. I guess hes nervous? Whatever. Not my problem. Ive got a job to do.

Theres my star! Whos camera ready for his big day?

The shout reverberates through the once peaceful church like a megaphone, and I instinctively cringe. Gordon Thorne, Reeces manager and self-proclaimed starmaker . He strides in, a human hurricane of ego, carrying a tray of coffees in one hand and shopping bags in the other. His smile gleams as if its superglued in placeglossy, lifeless, and weirdly off-putting.

From his obviously fresh Botox to his over-plugged hairline, everything about Gordon screams fifty-year-old trying to pass for a Gen-Z-years-old. Today hes decked out in a lavender tuxedoan attempt to complement Astrids iridescent aesthetic. Honestly, he resembles the missing friend from Dumb and Dumber who got lost on his way to prom in 1995.

Hey, camera girl! he calls out. Why arent you filming?

Gordon, man, we talked about this, Reece cuts in. She has a name.

Yeah, thats how I remember herCam, camera girl! Its our nickname. Right? He flashes me a were-on-the-same-page smile. Newsflash: were not.

Sure? I answer, though it comes out more as a question.

Here. Gordon dumps some goodie bags in my arms then whips out a sage green shirt and tosses it to Reece. Put this on for the intro. The color is everything. That chartreuse monstrosity? Disaster.

Im not convinced starting over with designers was worth the cost, Reece says, but his fingers are already working down his shirt buttons.

Sweet mother of manual focus. I should look away. I really should. But my eyes have a mind of their own, sneaking peeks at abs I can never get enough of. Which is completely inappropriate since hes getting married inI check my screenone and half hours.

Take it from someone who knows the game, Gordon says, oozing with I-know-best confidence. One wrong move, and youre sunk. Thats why we kicked off with clothes. Come next month, when your shoe line launchesyour incomes gonna skyrocket, mark my words.

He spins toward me. Camera girl, we need DareFuel cans everywhere. New Caffeine Tsunami Coconut for the honeymoon content, but Hyperdrive Honeydew and Orange Eruption are still our money makers.

I stuff energy drink cans into my pockets while my brain short-circuits. Maybe Gordon doesnt know my full name. What if he doesnt realize that it was me who sent him the resignation email?

Fuck.

My heart starts racing against my ribs. I havent thought this through. The email only went out this morning. Even worse, what if Gordon does know and then he tells Reece about my two-weeks notice right here, right now? My entire plan of breaking the news in Hawaii (after Reece has consumed his body weight in pia coladas) will be ruined.

Lets go over the wedding sponsors real quick Gordon unfurls a list so long it could double as a bridal train.

Reece emits a guttural groan that sounds as if his soul is attempting to escape.

Hey, who got you a private jet to Maui? Gordon preens. G-Thorne, thats who!

I bite back a laugh at Gordons self-given nickname. The truth is, hes not wrong. Its influencer economics 101. YouTube views might pay for some fancy dinners, but the real money? Thats in products and sponsorship deals. Reece isnt just a person; hes an all-out brand. DareWear. DareFuel. DareProductions. Its a giant empire with employees, offices, and overhead. And Gordon? That guys been running the show for five years, calling himself the architect of Reece Dare.

Woo-hoo! Bro wifeyd up! The shout echoes off the vaulted ceilings.

I look up to see the internets second favorite prankster zooming down the mirrored aisle like its his own personal Slip N Slide.

THWUMP.

He crashes into Reece at the end, nearly taking them both out. Bro! Hug tackle! Blaze says, popping up as if nothing happened, We gotta do that again for the fansstraight fire!

And there it isReeces smile appears like magic. The one thats launched a gazillion thirst posts and convinced millions of subscribers that hes sunshine incarnate instead of a daily black hole of joy.

Blake Blaze Tate is Reeces best friend and perpetual partner-in-chaos. Girls love his bleach blonde hair, blue eyes, surfer bod, and sleeve of random tattoos (seriously, a fire-breathing gremlin riding a pizza?) . I imagine hes what would happen if you asked AI to design a dudebro. Sure, the mans got muscles for days and a grin that causes pregnancy scares, but hes no Reece Dare.

The thing about Blaze? Not the sharpest tool in the shed. But hes harmless and perpetually excited about everything. More importantly, he is the only one who can get Mr. Grumpy Pants to laugh.

Blaze, my man! Gordon holds his hand up for a high-five.

G-Thorne! Looking shiny, my dude! He smacks his hand so hard that Gordon winces.

Camera girl! Lets shoot the intro like he said. Set it up.

Blaze drags Reece back down the aisle, shouting, Cam! Get low. For a sick crash angle!

Thats too risky Reece starts.

Cams chill, right? Blaze asks me.

And there I am, once again choosing between common sense and the shot. Yup. I drop into position. Anything for the content.

Reeces scowl could frighten a demon back to hell.

Action! Gordon shouts.

They take off running. Its my wedding day! Reece yells as they hit the shiny runway.

When Astrid proposed a center aisle made entirely of mirrors, I knew it was going to be a filming nightmare. But not gonna lie, this is a fucking epic shot. The boys running, their reflections filling the frame in an echoing blur.

I hold tight as they slide closer, closer, closer

WHAM.

Suddenly Im flat on my back with six feet of pure muscle crushing me into the floor. But my footage? Steady as a surgeon. I didnt spend two years filming parkour stunts to fumble the shot.

Reeces weight pins me to the ground, our eyes lock, and for a moment, we freeze. His heart hammers against mine, and I see the flecks of darker blue in his gaze. I can feel his breath on my lips

Cut! Gordon breaks the spell. Perfect! Now lets get some product placement in there. I want DareFuel cans front and center on the altar. Make Jesus proud!

I scramble up, refusing to acknowledge my buzzing skin. Through my viewfinder, I watch Reece transform into the charming goofball. Its a magic trick worthy of Vegasthe way he can flip that switch and become the guy everyone thinks they know.

Hey, DareSquad! he says with a grin. Smash that Like button if youre pumped to see me get married today!

Thats right, fam! Blaze says, beaming. DareDuos gettin married. I mean, were not, but my boy is. Hes gonna be Mr. Astrid.

He looks at Reece, blinking like it just hit him.

Bro we still buds after youre married? I can come over, right?

Always, bro. Reece throws an arm around him. This is only the start of our next epic adventure

Hellooo! The bride is here, people! Why are there no cameras on me?

And just like that, the circus gets its ringleader. Astrid Montclair storms in, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her phone as if her life depends on it.

Camera girl! What are you doing? Get Astrid in the shot! Its her big day!

I fight the urge to roll my eyes and focus my lens on the bride. Here we go.

Astrid is a lot. Platinum-blonde extensions run down her back in perfectly styled wavesso shiny I swear theyre reflecting the rhinestones on the church walls. Her makeup is an exercise in excess: cheekbones carved with industrial-strength contour, lashes long enough to generate wind gusts, and lips plumped to cartoonish proportions. The neon pink dress shes wearing clings to her surgically enhanced curves like its afraid to let go, while her teetering glittery stilettos are screaming, Look at me bitches!

Nothing about her is genuine. Not her hair, not her smile, and definitely not the green eyes she flaunts for her Instagram followers (those babies are tinted contacts) . Over the last twenty-four months, I have had a front-row seat to the Astrid Montclair Diva Show. Lets just say Ive learned to pack snacks.

Oh my fucking God, forget the whole damn thing! She throws her hands up, her flashy acrylics resembling daggers. And why the hell is Reece here? He cant see me yet! Isnt that, like, bad wedding voodoo or something?

Right on cue, the waterworks start. Gotta hand it to hershes perfected the art of crying without smudging her makeup. Must be all that practice from her apology videos.

Reece pinches the bridge of his nose. Astrid, can we not

Oh my God, Reece, do you hate happiness? She wails, stomping her stiletto on the mirrored floor. Because thats what it feels like! You are ruining my ceremony with your bad vibes. This happily-ever-after kickoff was supposed to be iconic ! Like, TMZ-wedding-spread iconic! And now? Now its giving dumpster fire energy!

She flips her hair, turns, and power walks out of the church like someone who just rage-quit a video game. For a moment, nobody moves. The only sound is Blazes muffled snicker. This is Astrid Playbook 101. Shell be back.

Gordon claps his hands together. I got this, Reece. No worries. He turns to me, his eyes narrowing. And youkeep that camera rolling, no matter what. Got it?

Gordon rushes after Astrid, and I glance at Reece, who looks to be seconds away from breaking something expensive.

I exhale slowly, adjusting my filming rig. A few more hours, I remind myself. One last stretch of chaos, glitter, and diva tantrums, then Im on a plane to Maui.

Paradise is waiting. And it cant come soon enough.