“I’m fine.”
“Nah, man, that’s 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 he’s dealing drugs at a rave.
“You promise these aren’t… laced with something?”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Only love, my guy.”
I pop them into my mouth. Just TUMS.Damn.The chalky tablets aren’t 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 there’s another crisis—DareFuel sales dropping, DareWear’s new shoe line delayed, sponsors threatening to pull out because my “authentic” relationship content isn’t hitting their metrics. It’s a yacht party with a busted engine and no life vests, and somehow, I’m solely responsible.
My eyes drift to Cam, who’s setting up her shot. Her tongue’s caught between her teeth in concentration—hazel eyes locked on her viewfinder like nothing else exists. She has no idea how much she’s impacted me. I’m 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. I’m only twenty-eight but feel ancient, as if I’ve aged in dog years since Gordon strong-armed me into this influencer power couple nightmare. The bags under my eyes could carry all of Astrid’s emotional baggage—and that’s saying something.
I pose for my obligatory pre-wedding post. My Armani tux can’t distract from my smile, which resembles morehostage negotiationthanexpression 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. “That’s one set of boobs. Forlife.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 isn’t 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 haven’t 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 mother’s entire medical team are counting on menotto pull a runaway groom. Even if every cell in my body is screaming,RUN!
And then—holy 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 just”—she fans her face with perfectly manicured talons—“take a moment to appreciate this aesthetic?”
Appreciateis not the word I’d use.
“Swipe up for my Wedding Day Glow tutorial! And don’t forget to check out my Pre-Ceremony Cleanse juice collab. It detoxes negativity, resets your DNA—plus, it’s like, sparkly!”
Astrid’s 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 we’re suddenly all trapped inside a disco ball.My poor retinas.
“Wedding day fit check!” She stops and poses, popping her hip. “Who’s living for this bridal slay? We’ve got LED strips imported from Milan, crystals blessed by a fortune teller on TikTok, and my sheer MVP thong, which stands for Men’s Vagina Parking. Customized by me and for sale online. That’s right, bitches. My vajayjay’s an influencer too!”
Blaze coughs violently beside me, his palm clamping over his mouth to stifle his laugh.
I glare at him. “Don’t encourage her.”
I see Cam, who’s 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 vajazzling—swipe up now and use code HOLYHOLE for twenty percent off your own coochie crystals!”
