CHAPTER TWO
REECE
Here come the vultures, I grumble, peeking out from behind the church stage.
The sanctuary is filling up faster than Blaze can shotgun a beer. Row after row fill with human peacocks, each more desperate for attention than the last. Astrids crew of beauty gurus claim the front seats, their faces so contoured and plumped their own mothers wouldnt recognize them. The second row features the usual suspects: gaming nerds whove never touched grass, prank channels that peaked in 2020, and fitness creators who definitely skip leg day but never skip a chance to flex.
Its not a wedding. Its a viral content factory.
I scan the sea of ring lights and selfie sticksover 500 people whod sell their firstborn for followers. These are all special guests who would never show up without Wi-Fi and an active Instagram audience. I search for a single person I would consider a friend
Zero.
The number hits harder than the time I jumped off a building into a trampoline of LEGOS for views.
These are influencers: a select group of whos whopeople who treat friends as networking opportunities and use social media engagement as currency. Theyre not here to celebrate lovetheyre here to be seen celebrating love. It brings up that philosophical question: if an influencer attends a marriage ceremony but doesnt post about it, did it even happen?
Every single one of them wants something. A sponsorship deal. A shoutout. A collab. A paycheck. These favor-fishing parasites slide requests into my DMs like desperate ex-girlfriends. Sup, bestie, let me catch you up on my new hydrating, oat-milk-infused collagen powder. And a recent favorite: Hey hottie, totally random, but do you want to promote my gluten-free, non-toxic moon water?
In this whole cathedral, I can count the people who actually give a shit about me with four fingers: Blaze (when hes not being an idiot) , my mothers, and Gordon (though his caring comes with a fifteen percent management fee).
They say its lonely at the top. What they dont tell you is that the view is a sea of faces, all waitingphones in handto capture your fall for their next viral clip.
Oh em gee. The chandeliers are literally everything! a blonde in row three squeals. Wait till my followers see this!
Im glad shes impressed; she should be. Last time I checked, the wedding bills were up to three million dollars. Three. Fucking. Million. And thats not counting the surprise musical performances Astrids planned for the after-party, featuring influencers who think autotune is a personality trait.
I glance at my phone. Thirty minutes until I sign away my life for views, trade my happiness for the security of others, and my integrity for a prenup that reads like a brand deal contract.
G-Thorne has entered the building! Gordon booms, strutting down the aisle in his lavender tux. Hes eye-catching in an aging Velvet Elvis kind of way. Content creators are scrambling over each other to get a handshake from my starmaker manager.
I still remember two years ago, sitting in Gordons chrome and leather office. His new hair plugs caught the fluorescent light as he slid those devastating analytics across his desk.
Adventure content is dead, kid. The numbers dont lie, hed said, tapping a graph that resembled a ski slope. But Ive got your golden ticketAstrid Montclair. Shes the queen of beauty; youre the king of stunts. Its a match made in algorithm heaven!
Id laughed. Actually fucking laughed. Because surely this was a joke, right? Fake dating the high priestess of overdrawn lips and underwhelming content?
But then he mentioned the staff cuts wed have to make. The families that would be affected. The healthcare packages that would vanishincluding the one covering my moms treatments.
Funny how fast principles disappear when reality comes knocking.
Keep smiling. Stay relevant. Dont let them see you crack.
That mantras been my soundtrack ever since.
At first, it wasnt so bad. A few staged dates, some couples challenges, pretending to care about skincare routines or whatever. Other influencers do it all the time. But weeks bled into months, months into years. Each video more plastic than before, until I forgot what real felt like.
Every time I tried to pull the plug, Gordon would play his trump card. Consider your employees, Reece. The families depending on you. Your mothers medications. Each word was another brick in the prison Id built myself.
And he was right. I couldnt. Still cant.
Then Astrid proposed the engagement as if she was launching a new product line. Think of the numbers! Well break the internet!
I had just nodded, already dead inside, wondering if this was what my life was meant to bea walking, talking sponsorship opportunity with trust issues.
This is literally iconic! a teenager in an aisle seat squeals as she films the mirrored floor, which shimmers like a river of glass. I cant believe Im at Reece Dares wedding! Hes such relationship goals!
Yup, thats me. About to marry somebody I dont even like, much less love. All for the sake of a channel I secretly wish would disappear.
Keep smiling. Stay relevant. Dont let them see you crack.
***
All I want is a moment of peace before this shitshow begins. I glance hopefully at my green room door Its vibrating, I mean actually pulsating with thumping bass sounds. I pause, hand hovering over the knob, bracing myself. Because either Im having a stroke, or thats my mother rapping about WAP (thats right, wet ass pussy) .
I open the door.
My mothers, Verabetter known as Mama Vand Helen, who we affectionately call Mom Hawk, are singing out explicit lyrics about the female anatomy like theyre pop stars on a comeback tour. Their voices harmonize in a way that makes it so much worse.
Blaze coined those nicknames back in the day when we were two teenage idiots with a camera and a death wish, long before verification badges and brand deals made everything so damn complicated.
Mama Vmy brunette, curly haired motheris a free-spirited, former drama teacher. Shes spitting Cardi B lines like shes been recruited in an underground rap battle. Shes perched on her mobility scooter, lips mouthing every graphic syllable.
The dramatic pauses? Unnecessary. The overly expressive hand gestures? Deeply concerning. And now Mama V is twerking. WHILE. SEATED.
I make direct eye contact with my mom Helen, pleading for her to be the adult here. But my normally reserved, gray-haired, architect-to-the-stars parent (who once grounded me for saying crap at the dinner table) dismisses my frown gently. Shes having a blast in full raunch-mode, belting out traumatizing lyrics about buckets, mops, creams, and screams. I start actively dissociating, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answers to why my wedding day has turned into this.
Kill me. Kill me now.
Blaze is doubled over, his eyes wet with tears, that infectious laugh of his filling the room. The same laugh Ive heard through a thousand stupid stunts, bad decisions, and when I got my first million subscribers.
And then theres Camila.
Fucking hell.
Shes got her camera up, but for once, shes not the rock-steady pro Im used to seeing. Her body shakes with laughter, sending glitter from her cargo pants raining down like confetti. Those damn pants are hugging her curves just right, and its making my mind yearn to go places it shouldnt. Especially not twenty minutes before Im supposed to say I do to someone else.
Yo, Reece! Blaze manages between gasps. Mama Vs got bars. We should post this video as Moms WAP Remix. Shes dropping lines so dirty. Shes got flow, man. Im scared for society.
My chest tightens. This is my real content. Not the manufactured, pre-planned bullshit waiting in that crystal-covered cathedral. Heres Mama, who sees her Parkinsons diagnosis as just another act in her ongoing performance of life. And Mom, our family rock, who cheers us on with genuine enthusiasm, no matter what.
Every view, every like, every viral momentthey all started because of one trembling hand and a stack of medical bills that were taller than the Washington monument.
When I was fifteen, I found a beat-up camera at a yard sale. Ten bucks and a prayer. I started filming increasingly wild stuntsanything to make people click, share, subscribe. That first viral videome backflipping off the garage roof into a baby pool of Jell-Opaid for four months of Mamas medications. The second covered half a year of physical therapy. By the tenth trending video, we could afford the specialist Mom had been researching.
And my best friend Blaze has been my rock through everythingthe good times, the bad times, and even the lets car surf in LA traffic fiasco that had Mom Hawk threatening military school.
His phone buzzes. Aw, dang. G-Thornes callin. Best man stuff, probably, like folding napkins or, I dunno, holding the rings. He moonwalks toward the doorshouldnt work, totally does. Because hes Blaze and hes never given a single fuck about looking cool.
For a brief, beautiful moment, everything feels normal. No trending hashtags. No analytics. No Gordon breathing down my neck about engagement metrics. Just my wonderfully weird family, my goofball best friend, and Cam
But as soon as Blaze leaves, anxiety and impending doom creep back in. I do what I always do when I need a distractionantagonize Camila Morales. Because watching her transform from sunshine to sass is like mainlining dopaminebetter than any energy drink.
I lean against the long dining table in the middle of the room, its polished surface reflecting the scattered DareFuel cans and DareWear clothing. Cam is crouched nearby, digging through her cargos, probably searching for a backup battery.
Shes muttering in Spanisha melody of frustration directed at her equipment. Or maybe me. Hopefully me.
Hand over the camera, Morales, I say, letting my voice carry the slightest edge of a challenge. I want to check your footage.
Whats wrong, Dare? Dont trust my artistic vision? And here I thought we had something special.
Your artistic vision gave me three double chins in last weeks thumbnail.
That wasnt the camera angle. She grins, completely unfazed by my scowl. That was your Cams doing everything wrong face. You know, the face youre making right now?
Christ, her smile should come with a background check and a waiting period. Its like staring directly into the sunbrilliant and probably causes permanent damage.
The footage, Morales.
Cam clutches her precious Sony as if Ive asked to juggle her firstborn. This is the new A7S IV. It has a different setup.
Ive been filming for a decade. I can handle pressing play.
You havent touched a camera in two years, she says but surrenders it anyway.
I fumble with the buttons, each click making my jaw clench tighter. The screen menu might as well be quantum physics. My fingers, which used to dance across camera controls as if they were extensions of my body, feel clumsy and foreign.
Having trouble there, boss? Cam says, eyes dancing with glee.
Wheres the fucking playback?
Ay, Dios! Watching you right now is like watching a grandpa discover Instagram filters. Cams lips twitch, fighting a smile. She steps closer, coconut-scented hair brushing my arm as she reaches for the controls. Time for Film School 101. And dont worry, Ill use small words.
She leans in, her fingers lightly touching mine, and my heart sings.
This magical circle thing? Its called a control wheel. Con-trol-wheel.
Youre supposed to be my videographer, not a one-woman comedy show.
And yet, Im excelling at both, she replies, her grin unapologetic.
Well played, Camila! Mama says.
Way to give it to him, Mom adds.
I give them both a betrayed expression. Seriously? Youre taking her side?
Sweetheart, Mom says, anyone who can make you this delightfully flustered deserves our full support.
I still know what Im doing behind a camera, I growl.
Sure you do. Cam pats my arm with mock sympathy. And Im sure somewhere, buried under all that grump and hair product, is the guy who once inspired me to pick up a camera. You know, back when you made cool content that didnt have to be sponsored.
The words slam into me, a wrecking ball to my ego, mainly because theyre true.
Oh snap! Mama clutches her chest dramatically. Helen, our son just got served!
Indeed. Moms finger taps thoughtfully against her chin. Though Id rate it more of a gentle roasting than a full serving.
Cams smile widens.
Time to switch tactics. I lift the camera, pointing it directly at her. The reaction is immediateand fascinating. Cams usual confidence falters, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. The girl who once hung off a helicopter to get the perfect shot suddenly cant meet the lens.
Now this is interesting. I adjust the focus, watching her squirm.
What are you doing? she says, her voice uncharacteristically shy. Reece, no
Moms, break out the questions. We need answers.
Reece, Mom warns.
Its my wedding day. Pretty sure theres some universal law about everyone doing whatever the groom wants.
My mothers exchange their patented our son is stressed lookthe same skeptical squint they shot me when I dropped the engagement bomb. Its no secret theyre not thrilled with who Im marrying today.
The phrase is bridezilla, not groomzilla, dear, Mama corrects with a theatrical sigh. But well play along. Sorry, Camila.
Through the viewfinder, I watch a blush climb up her neck until pink is flooding her cheeks. Then she bites her lower lip. Is she nervous?
Mom Hawk, you go first, I say. What should we ask her?
Lets start with family, dear, Mom says with a troubling grin. Who do we thank for that impressive ability to handle difficult men?
I make an offended noise. Me? Im a delight.
Oh really? Cam suddenly forgets about the camera, and her body relaxes. Is delightful something I should feel more of when you criticize my camerawork or when you tell me I dress like a dad on a Home Depot run?
The wit. The attitude. The way she comes alive the second shes calling me out. Its as if Im watching a completely different person.
Umm Born and raised in New York, she continues, shifting back to shy when she remembers shes being filmed. My parents immigrated from Puerto Rico before I was born. And my sister Aria is trying to make it as a chef. Shes incredible. In her spare time, she volunteers at different food kitchens for the homeless and underprivileged kids.
Waitsister? Two years of watching her risk life and limb for my content, and I didnt know she had a sister?
My brain flashes back to when Gordon dragged her into my office like she was a shiny new toy he was delighted to show off. Fresh out of film school, he said.
I was overwhelmed with filming, editing, running multiple companies, and in the fresh hell of my fake relationship with Astrid. My channel needed help, and Gordon decided the solution was a videographer.
Worst. Idea. Ever.
Cams portfolio was as stacked as she wasartistic shots, perfect framing, and this award-winning documentary that had Gordon salivating. She was brimming with talent and ambition, and, to my immediate dismay, drop-dead gorgeous. The instant she walked in, I knew hiring her was a bad idea.
Because Cam? Shes the kind of woman who makes guys forget things. Important things. Like professionalism. And personal space. And that its my fucking wedding day.
Gordon hired her before I could process what was happening. Just clapped her on the back as if they were old friends and declared, Welcome to the team!
The second I forced out Congratulations, my brain slammed the emergency brakes and threw up a list of survival rules.
Rule onedont stare at her ass. Yes, that thing is round and curvy, but do not memorize how it bounces, shifts, and taunts you.
Rule number twokeep your eyes on the camera. Whatever you do, dont drown in those fuck-me hazel eyes.
Rule threeher lips. Dont look. Dont wonder. And for the love of God, dont fucking fantasize about how theyd taste.
Ive failed at all three. Spectacularly.
So I went with plan B: become the grumpiest boss in YouTube history. Keep her at arms length with criticism and complaints. Make her think Im a demanding jerk who lives to nitpick her camera work. Its easier than the alternativeadmitting how extraordinarily beautiful and talented she is or how badly I want to kiss that sassy mouth, how I would lick every curve and...
Nope.
Im her boss. Her BOSS!
Hard stop.
The end.
Get the memo, brain-between-my-legs.
And whats your dream job, sweetheart? Mama V asks.
I watch Cams entire body language shift through the lens.
Oh! Working for Reece is
The truth, dear. Moms tone could slice through bullshit at fifty paces.
Um, well Cam swallows hard. Someday, a long time from now, I hope to make documentaries. Real ones, you know? Help people who need their stories told. The ones society pretends dont exist.
Well, shit.
Oh! Mama clasps her palms together. What a beautiful heart you have.
So noble, Mom says, shooting me a look that I steadfastly ignore.
Something possessive stirs as I remember Cams phone conversation from earlier. Speaking of hearts, tell them about your vacation plans. You said something about treating cabana boys like coconut trees sampling everything on the Hawaiian buffet.
Her eyes promise slow, painful death, but I cant help myself. The thought of her with random island douchebags makes me want to punch things. Which is ridiculous because Im on the verge of getting married and
REECE! Gordon shrieks, his designer loafers squeaking against the floor as he storms over. What are you doing with that camera? Youre the talent, not the help! He snatches it from my hands, throwing it at Cam. Ive been texting you!
Gordon , cmon now. This is our sons wedding day. Mom Hawk delivers his name like a warning shot.
Why, hello ladies. Your front-row seats await. Its showtime!
I clear my throat. Hey ya know, Im having reserva
Camera girl! Front and center with Reece and Blaze. Now!
Cam catches my eye, and for a moment that sass disappears. You good?
Absolutely, I lie. Lets get this circus started.
***
This is my funeral. It seems like a wedding, but trust me, my will to live is DOA.
Every surface of this church sparkles with an unholy amount of glitter. Each guest is more concerned with their ring light positioning than the actual ceremony. The traditional wooden pews have been replaced with clear acrylic chairsbecause God forbid anything come across as naturally beautiful. Its as if Astrid handed Pinterest a blank check and said, Do your worst.
This place is extra as fuck, Blaze whispers beside me. His bowtie is crooked, and theres a suspicious flask-shaped bulge in his pocket. Hows the stomach, man? You look like youre about to yartz.
Im fine.
Nah, man, thats your ghost pepper challenge face. Same one you made right before you cried on camera. Remember, dude? And your butthole ghosted you for three days.
That video got fifty-six million views, so my ass forgives us.
Blaze drops a couple of TUMS into my palm like hes dealing drugs at a rave.
You promise these arent laced with something?
He wiggles his eyebrows. Only love, my guy.
I pop them into my mouth. Just TUMS. Damn. The chalky tablets arent nearly strong enough to settle the acid churning in my gut.
Running a global brand has pretty much shot the lining of my stomach. Every damn day theres another crisisDareFuel sales dropping, DareWears new shoe line delayed, sponsors threatening to pull out because my authentic relationship content isnt hitting their metrics. Its a yacht party with a busted engine and no life vests, and somehow, Im solely responsible.
My eyes drift to Cam, whos setting up her shot. Her tongues caught between her teeth in concentrationhazel eyes locked on her viewfinder like nothing else exists. She has no idea how much shes impacted me. Im about to vow forever to someone, and all I can think about is how fucking wrong it feels.
Pulling out my phone, I tap the camera app and wince at my reflection. Im only twenty-eight but feel ancient, as if Ive aged in dog years since Gordon strong-armed me into this influencer power couple nightmare. The bags under my eyes could carry all of Astrids emotional baggageand thats saying something.
I pose for my obligatory pre-wedding post. My Armani tux cant distract from my smile, which resembles more hostage negotiation than expression of joy .
Aww yeah, get that money shot! Blaze launches himself into frame.
I post it with the caption: Almost time #DareSquad.
Bro. Blaze nods with the profound wisdom of someone who once tried to teach a ferret to skateboard. Thats one set of boobs. For life. Or until the prenup expires. This is gonna be the longest brand deal ever.
Christ. The prenup. Thirty pages of legally binding bullshit that basically translates to thou shalt create content until death or irrelevance do us part. My lawyer actually laughed when he read it. Then charged me $500 an hour for the consultation.
Dude, this isnt one of our usual prank videos, I remind him. So no fake priest, no trained animals, no surprise dance mobs.
I know! I know! I cancelled the llamas in bowties. Mama V already yelled at me. Twice.
The lights dim and the DJ unleashes a dubstep version of the wedding march that sounds like the Transformers having sex with a church organ. Because apparently, we havent destroyed tradition enough today. The bass thunders so hard, the crystal chandeliers above us are having a full-blown seizure. Jesus himself is probably filing a noise complaint with God right now.
Well. This is it. Time to take one for Team Dare. Three hundred and forty-seven employees, two energy drink factories, four clothing warehouses, one production studio soundstage, and my mothers entire medical team are counting on me not to pull a runaway groom. Even if every cell in my body is screaming, RUN!
And thenholy mother of desperation.
Queen Astrid has arrived! she announces as she begins her processional while livestreaming. Your girl is literally about to become Mrs. Dare! Can we justshe fans her face with perfectly manicured talonstake a moment to appreciate this aesthetic?
Appreciate is not the word Id use.
Swipe up for my Wedding Day Glow tutorial! And dont forget to check out my Pre-Ceremony Cleanse juice collab. It detoxes negativity, resets your DNAplus, its like, sparkly!
Astrids gaze sweeps the room, zeroing in on the digital darlings in attendance. Helloooooo. Where are my spotlights? It was on the invitation!
The content creators snap to attention as if their follower count depends on it. Five hundred phones rise in perfect unison, flashlights bathing Astrid in an artificial glow. Every surface reflects light until were suddenly all trapped inside a disco ball. My poor retinas.
Wedding day fit check! She stops and poses, popping her hip. Whos living for this bridal slay? Weve got LED strips imported from Milan, crystals blessed by a fortune teller on TikTok, and my sheer MVP thong, which stands for Mens Vagina Parking. Customized by me and for sale online. Thats right, bitches. My vajayjays an influencer too!
Blaze coughs violently beside me, his palm clamping over his mouth to stifle his laugh.
I glare at him. Dont encourage her.
I see Cam, whos already adjusting the camera for the near impossible shot.
Can we talk about this iconic aisle situation? She squeals into her phone. The mirrors? They are metaphors. For reflection. For truth. For showing off my fresh vajazzlingswipe up now and use code HOLYHOLE for twenty percent off your own coochie crystals!
Blaze wheezes so loudly that even the DJ gives him a side-eye.
I jab him in the ribs. Pull it together.
I cant, he gasps, tears streaming down his face. Holy hole. HOLY. HOLE. Bro, thats poetry.
Lets work together to get this wedding to hit a billion views!
The influencers in the pews nod and murmur like theyve just been blessed by the Pope of Social Media. Phones all recording, angles adjusted, and hashtags are flying. My eye twitches as I scan the attendees ridiculous, over-the-top outfits. Metallic suits, feathery gowns, and a dude wearing what seems to be a functioning aquarium on his head. Yep, there are fish in there. Swimming.
Astrid finally high heels it to the altar, but not before pausing to shoot a slow-motion hair flip that sends her platinum extensions cascading in waves. The DJ drops the bass for dramatic effect. Subtle.
The rambunctious crowd eats it up while the pastor, clearing his throat, seems to already be drafting new rules for church weddings in his head. Dearly beloved
Astrid, still streaming, takes my hand and we both inch closer. To the altar. To our future. To our shared lives together. Oh boy.
WAIT! Astrid screeches. We have a PROBLEM.
What. Are. You. Doing? I manage through gritted teeth.
She dramatically turns with her streaming phone to face the audience, now in full Kardashian ugly cry mode. Reece, baby I CANT marry you. The universe is sending me signs! My crystals did a TikTok reading. Mercury is in Gatorade! Venus just textedTime to level up, babe! Also, my spirit guidewhos my collab partner for crystal-infused vape penssays I shouldnt settle. Im meant to be with someone else.
The masses gasp. Somebody yells, Oh my God, were going viral!
Astrid, I grit out, were in a church. You cant pull pranks in church.
This isnt a prank, Reece! And there they arethe waterworks. Perfect teardrops that dont disturb her triple-stack lashes. Im so sorry!
She sprints down the aisle, her LED dress strobing, still narrating: Besties! Sometimes the universe has other plans. Like my new breakup bundle, featuring tear-proof mascara, use code DUMPED for fifty percent off. And bitches, you better smash that subscribe button. New video tomorrow: I Left Him At The Altar And My Skin Is Literally Glowing! Link in bio for my breakup skincare routine!
What.
The.
Algorithm exploding.
Fuck.