Chapter 1
It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time…
Vivian Whitlock — Paradise Bay Resort, Santa Valentina
“I say you kill him,” my best friend Paige says, having another sip of her mojito. “That’ll get you massive widow points which should definitely increase your views, no?”
“Totally would.” I glance out at the gentle waves as they roll in to the white sand beach, then turn my head to Paige, who’s lying on a chaise longue next to mine under a big umbrella. “But would I be a widow? We’re not married. We don’t even live together.”
“Even better. You can spin it as if he was the one and you were about to take things to the next level when he stepped out in front of a bus or … or … got stabbed trying to stop a purse-snatcher.”
“Purse snatcher? What is this? 1955?”
“What? Purse snatchers are still a thing,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows from behind her oversized sunglasses.
“Yes, but nobody uses that phrase anymore. They call it a mugging.”
“I think we should go back to calling it a purse-snatching. It’s more specific.”
Nodding, I say, “True.” I consider the idea of killing off Mister X, then shake my head. “I can’t kill him. He’s been such a rock, especially when I caught Norovirus.”
She lowers her sunglasses and narrows her eyes at me. “You do know he doesn’t exist, right?”
“I do, and yet, I feel a real sense of loyalty to him. He deserves better than to get schmucked by a bus,” I tell her, sucking down a giant gulp of my pina colada. “And you don’t have to say it. I already know that makes me sound crazy.”
“It does, but oddly enough, I get it.”
“And that’s why you’ll always be my best friend.” I smile over at her, my heart squeezing at the fact that I’m only here for four days, then it’s back to New York for me with no clue how long it’ll be before I see her again.
Paige’s manly man boyfriend, Mac, flew me all the way from New York City to Santa Valentina Island to surprise her for her twenty-ninth birthday (which was yesterday).
Mac’s a sweetheart who seems to understand how vital ‘Paige and Viv time’ is for the wellbeing of the love of his life.
Since she moved down here to be with him, he’s done an amazing job of making sure I know I’m welcome anytime, never rushing us when we’re on a marathon phone call, and quietly exiting the room when I call with a crisis.
The truth is—and I’d never admit this out loud—a part of me wants to hate him for making her fall in love with him and whisking her off to island life, but he’s just too damn terrific for me to do anything but love the guy.
Case in point: he put Paige and me up at the luxurious Paradise Bay Resort for two days of pampering, relaxing, and all the girl talk we can handle (and we can handle a lot—like fourteen hours a day).
We talk until we fall asleep, then pick up where we left off in the morning without even bothering with “Good morning,” or “How’d you sleep?
” In fact, we’re currently in hour four of problem-solving mode because I’ve got a wee bit of a crisis and I need my bestie to help me figure out what to do.
So far, the people doing our massages, pedicures, and serving us lunch have likely all figured out that I have a boyfriend that I need to do away with quickly.
I’m sure at least one of them thinks I’m a total psychopath and the rest must think I’m an idiot.
In fact, the massage therapist almost said as much (right after I tipped her, of course).
I don’t want to butt in, but honestly, it’s pretty simple.
Just call the poor bastard and tell him you don’t love him.
I can’t call him because he never existed in the first place. So there, Ms. Judgy McMagic Hands.
Generally speaking, I’m no liar. In fact, I despise lying with the power of a nuclear reactor.
My father was a liar. I should say he is a liar.
I learned first-hand how damaging lies can be back when I was eleven and he was busy preparing to abandon us for a twenty-four-year-old in a tube top and Daisy Dukes who sold hot dogs out of a lunch truck outside the construction site he was working at.
They’ve been together ever since and have three kids who he dotes on.
He couldn’t be bothered to show up at my graduation.
It would be awkward for everyone, Viv. Your mom still isn’t over me (ha!
Not true!). But he shows up at every soccer game and dance recital his new children have.
Sits right in the front row with Tube Top, capturing the moment on videos he sends me via texts that say, Your sister scored the winning goal!
Wow. Good for her. I’m so proud. #dontcare
But I digress because I’m talking about me bending the truth in a harmless little way that, as it turns out, isn’t quite as harmless as I thought.
I’m one of the original lifestyle influencers.
I got in on the ground floor way back when I was fresh out of college and had just moved to New York.
It started out as a bit of fun while I was trying to get a job in marketing (to make use of my degree), but I blew up so fast, I never did end up getting a ‘real job.’ I’ve spent the last seven years introducing my fans to the world’s best brands, whether it’s luxury clothing, makeup and skin care, or home decor.
The decor is my favorite, but the clothing and handbags get me the most views.
My audience has pretty much grown up with me, but now, they’re moving on with their lives to marriage and babies.
The second I noticed my subscribers and views were on a downward trend, I knew I had to do something.
The idea (like most horrible ideas) came to me around three in the morning, when I was lying awake panicking about my future.
I got out of bed, grabbed the soft pink cashmere scarf I was planning to showcase the next day, and made an impromptu video in my pajamas (no makeup or hair, but obviously with a filter that still made my skin glow) announcing to the world (okay, that’s a little much—the entire world doesn’t know me) that my new fella had given me the scarf.
He’s super private so I can’t share any details yet, but trust me, when he’s ready to go public, you’re going to absolutely die. He’s that incredible.
The last six months, I’ve been doing the whole Big Bird/Snuffalupagus thing from when my mom was a kid—pretending my fans ‘just missed him’ but look what he bought me today!
Usually it’s something small-but-thoughtful like a coffee from Starbucks.
But once it was a tennis bracelet in that iconic blue box.
He’s also out of town most of the time, which makes the whole ruse so much easier.
It’s been working too. My fans have been going crazy, hoping he’ll appear on camera each time I post. But it turns out you can’t string people along these days like you could back in the eighties on PBS, because my followers are starting to turn on me. Big time.
I’ve had more than a few accusations that Mister X is actually a fake.
And last week, one of my rival influencers, LornaLuvsLuxury, posted a shitty video saying as much (without using my actual name).
But everyone knew she meant me. It was obvious.
People piled on, making their own videos, and now it’s put up or shut up time for me.
And I can’t put up because he is fake. “If I just kill him off, people are definitely going to say he was never real.”
“True,” she says, signaling the server that we’d like another round of drinks. “What if—and I know this will sound awful—but what if you tell the truth?”
I shudder a little. “Nope. No way. The truth will kill my career.”
“No, seriously,” she says, sitting up and spinning on her chair so she’s facing me and her feet are on the sand.
“Think about it. You come clean. Tell the world you were desperate and you lied and you feel awful about it. You can expose the industry for what it is—a giant, soul-sucking treadmill you can never get off.”
“Soul-sucking treadmill? Come on, it’s not that bad. And if I did that, I’d easily lose half of my subscribers.”
“But you might gain more in the process. You could rebrand as the ‘honest influencer.’” Paige is a marketing genius, but as much as I respect her opinion, I can’t do it.
“Way too terrifying. Besides, nobody wants honest. Not really,” I tell her, having another sip of my drink.
“They think they do, but what they actually want is the illusion. The glamor and fantasy of being young, rich, and draped in luxury everything.” I let out a groan, then say, “Okay, one thing I can promise right here and now: I will never lie like this ever, ever again. Never. Not worth it.”
My phone buzzes and I pick it up off the side table. As soon as I see who’s calling, my stomach flips.
“Is that the Mighty Twins again?” Paige asks.
The Mighty Twins is my private nickname for my management team, Zaylee and Zara.
They’re sub-five-foot-tall identical twins, both with an extreme love of body building.
For the most part, I honestly don’t know which one is which, except that Zaylee has a laugh like a hyena while Zara’s is more like a kookaburra.
They’ve been trying to reach me all day, but I’ve been ignoring them. I nod, then set my phone back down.
“You should just answer it.”
“No way. Not on our special weekend. I’m here to relax and celebrate my best friend. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get back.”
“Honestly, I think you should talk to them. It’s got to be important for them to keep trying you.”
My phone pings. It’s a text from Zara. Please call us right back. It’s important.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Call them.”
I let out a sigh, then initiate a video call I definitely don’t want to be on. Sitting up, I angle the phone so I look as good as possible, even though I’m sweaty and red in the face from the heat. “Hey ladies!”