Chapter Five #2
“Cole,” I say through my headset. “The camera goes live in three… two… one.”
The countdown hits zero.
Blaze unleashes his signature smile. “Good evening, ocean legends.”
The live chat opens like a floodgate:
BLAZE TATE IS IN TUX I’M NOT OKAY
those decorations are INSANE
backflip into that fountain or this whole event is a scam
brO THIS IS FANCY AF
The live show energy is a jolt of lightning to the chest. God, I love this job!
“Move to the couple by the bar,” I murmur in Blaze’s ear. “Ask what brought them out tonight.”
Cole’s voice arrives one breath later. “Don’t chase it. Let them come to you.”
On my monitor, Blaze physically glitches.
He takes two steps toward the bar.
Stops.
Swivels back to camera.
“Aight, so—” He grins, scratching his head. “The voices in my head are currently arguing about vibes. My brain is like, ‘Yo, what’s the play here?’” He nods. “Give me a hot sec, squad.”
Thankfully, the women surrounding him giggle.
The chat thinks he’s adorable:
THE VOICES LMAOOO
BLAZE TALKING TO HIMSELF AGAIN
Where is this hotel I need to get married here
BLAZE NATION RISE
“Stop contradicting my directions,” I say into the earpiece.
“I’m not contradicting. I’m improving,” Cole replies.
“Blaze. Stage. Now.” I instruct. “Time for the official welcome.”
He swaggers onto the platform with a smirk, white tux catching all the light. Applause ripples through the warm space.
On my screen, the ballroom is a full-blown ocean fantasy: kelp swishing from the ceiling, LED fish swimming on the wall screens, and the sea lion statue framed perfectly stage left. The foam cannon at its base coughs out a pathetic little puff.
Um, what? That should be a steady, dramatic mist. I pocket that problem for post-speech me.
Blaze positions himself in front of the teleprompter podium. Cole moves with him, camera steady, frame perfect.
“Dudes, bros, flipper squad,” he says, mostly sticking to the script, “our sea lion homies are getting wrapped up in trash, and that’s so not gelling with their ocean pad!
So Saltwater Saviors? They’re out there cutting lines, untwisting nets, and hooking these pups up with round two of life like—BOOM—mic drop on pollution! ”
“That’s great, Blaze,” I say, dimming the house lights. “Now motion to the video screens.”
He points to the LED walls where the reef footage loops: silver fish drifting through coral so vivid you’d swear you could taste the salt.
I press play. The fish scatter. One final glint of scales. Then… sunrise.
Gold spills across the screen, the endless Pacific unfolding at dawn. I watch hundreds of singles in formal wear lean forward, drawn in by its presence, as drone footage sweeps over cliffs and dips into the shimmering blue. Behind me, a woman murmurs, “Oh, that’s beautiful.”
My eyes cut to the donation counter.
Zero.
Come on, come on.
The camera hits the beach. Volunteers in black wetsuits haul a sea lion onto a flat stretch of sand. The animal thrashes, a thick green line cinched around its neck. A rescuer holds the body. Another works a blade through the nylon with steady, controlled hands.
Orson stands on the shoreline, gripping a tangled snarl of abandoned fishing gear. “Entanglement does more than injure. It restricts feeding behavior, disrupts migration patterns, and increases mortality rates. One discarded net can alter an entire coastal ecosystem.”
The audience goes still. My monitor buzzes to life.
Donation: $50. Donation: $75. Donation: $350.
Yes!
My favorite part. Human beings deciding, in real time, to help.
White text appears on screen:
Saltwater Saviors. Marine Rescue. Coastal Cleanup. Community Action.
Dr. Sienna Alvarez appears with chest waders hugging her frame, scuffed boots, and dark curls loose around her shoulders. She’s crouched at the water’s edge, in the shallows, one hand resting steady on a sea lion pup. She faces the camera.
“Yes, we respond to entangled marine mammals along our coast, but rescue is only part of the work. We remove debris before it harms wildlife. We train volunteers. We protect fragile shoreline habitats so these animals have somewhere safe to return to.”
The total on my donation feed spikes.
$4,200
$5,900
$7,100
And just like that, the internet collectively develops a crush on Dr. Alvarez.
Mental note: feature Sienna again before the closing appeal. Because data doesn’t lie. We crossed twelve thousand dollars, and we’re not even ten minutes in.
It’s a strong start toward our first million.
On screen, an ear-tagged sea lion hesitates at the shoreline. Volunteers stand back, hands clasped, giving it space.
“So, when we free an animal,” Sienna says, “we’re saving more than a life. We’re restoring balance to the ocean.”
The sea lion lunges forward. Disappears into open water. The volunteers cheer.
The video closes. Ending title, white on black.
This weekend, you’re not just a guest. You’re part of the rescue.
I bring the house lights up. The entire Saltwater Saviors team is on stage.
All twenty-six of them.
The same people we saw wrestling fishing nets and rescuing sea lions are now in tuxes and satin gowns, diamonds catching chandelier light, hair styled, posture proud. Ocean warriors turned gala royalty.
Blaze spins in a slow circle, taking them in with theatrical awe.
“Yo, yo, YO! Let’s get some NOISE for the sickest squad out there saving our ocean every day!”
The ballroom answers with a wall of applause.
Blaze pivots back to camera, and Cole pushes in for a close-up.
“You saw the footage, you saw the rescues, now let’s meet the absolute LEGENDS making it happen! Oh, and get this—most of 'em are SINGLE!” He waggles his brows. “Who we interviewing first? Drop your wish in the chat.”
“Go to Sienna,” I bark.
“Orson first.” Cole says at the same time.
“No, Sienna,” I repeat. “Stage right. The internet loves her.”
“Orson,” Cole says. “By the statue. Trust me. Bromance brings donations.”
“SIENNA!”
“ORSON!”
“So uhhh, the voices are like, having a little meeting,” he announces. “But hey, no dead air on my watch!”
He throws both arms wide. “WHO’S HERE TO PARTY? EVERYBODY ON YOUR FEET. NO EXCUSES!”
Blaze pumps his fist, chanting, “SEAL THE DEAL.”
The front row echoes, “SEAL THE DEAL.”
No, no, no.
“SEAL THE DEAL.” The middle tables join in.
I watch the chat:
SEAL THE DEAL SEAL THE DEAL
this is my religion now
BLAZE FOR PRESIDENT
SEAL THE DEAL world tour!!!
The DJ instinctively drops a beat. The dance floor vibrates. Heels thud and champagne starts sloshing.
The pedestal of the carved sea lion trembles. Then trembles again. I clock it.
Blaze beelines toward Orson. “DR. O. High-five the sea lion. FOR THE ENERGY, brO.”
Orson, rigid in his tux, blinks. “I don’t believe high-fiving wildlife represents—”
Blaze shakes his head. “Nah. Like this.”
He winds up and slaps the statue’s fin like it’s a game show winner.
CRACK.
The statue tilts. Gasps ripple through the room.
Blaze lunges forward and does the impossible. He catches it against his chest. The crowd cheers as if he rescued it from actual extinction.
He grins, triumphant—
Right as the base of the statue swings forward.
WHACK.
Direct hit to the foam cannon nozzle.
SNAP. PUFF. PFFFFF.
Then—
The machine detonates.
A vertical column of foam rockets toward the ceiling like an unleashed genie with rage issues. It hits the chandeliers and rains back down in a thick, sudsy downpour.
Shrieks tear through the gala.
“I GOT IT!” Blaze yells.
He absolutely does not got it.
He grabs the cannon.
The foam DOUBLES.
He adjusts his grip.
It TRIPLES.
Within thirty seconds, the stage disappears. At forty-five, the front row vanishes. Sixty seconds later, the entire ballroom is a bubble bath gone rogue and foam is still—still—spewing across the dance floor in relentless, frothy waves.
I stare at my monitors. There is no protocol for this.
And then—
Cole moves.
He vaults onto the nearest banquet table, dress shoes skidding through foam, and cups his hands around his mouth.
“BLAZE!” he shouts. “It’s a foam rave!”
The DJ doesn’t flinch. The beat hits and the room loses its collective mind.
Blaze’s eyes light up as though someone has handed him purpose. With a throaty war cry, he hurls himself into the foam. Singles everywhere squeal, heels fly off, and phones go up.
Cole rips off his tux jacket, then his shirt. He uses the fabric to swipe foam from the lens. Then tosses it aside and keeps filming, bare-chested.
The chat is a blur of excitement:
WHO IS THE CAMERAMAN
SOMEBODY’S HUSBAND TOOK HIS SHIRT OFF
sir this is a conservation event
foam rave for the sea lions i’m crying
DONATE OR YOU’RE A COWARD
The foam is a goddamn blizzard.
It’s clogging the vintage champagne flutes, suffocating the centerpieces, and Juliette’s leather clipboard just floated past my knees on a sudsy wave.
The guests are dancing, and they’re full-on feral. It’s like a high-society car wash gone wrong, and the internet is hurling money at the donation ticker.
It screams past six figures, and it’s official. We’ve gone viral.
I should be thrilled. I’m not thrilled.
My foolproof night is drowning in bubbles. This was supposed to be my win. My vision, my execution, my moment—the one where our bosses finally saw me as the MVP of this operation.
But Cole Hartwell happened.
He tore the roof off, stripped to his waist, and replaced my elegance with shirtless mayhem. And the absolutely infuriating, soul-crushing part of it all? These people worship him for it.
By tomorrow morning, no one will remember my logistics or strategy. My name won’t even be a footnote; it’ll be the lint at the bottom of his gear bag.
What’s a girl to do?
Change tactics.
I am officially retired from being the “Responsible One.” No more planning and predictability.
He wants reckless? Fine. I’ll be reckless.
Watch your ass, Hartwell. I’m stealing your playbook.