“G-Thorne has entered the building!” Gordon booms, strutting down the aisle in his lavender tux.He’s 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 Gordon’s chrome and leather office. His new hair plugscaught the fluorescent light as he slid those devastating analytics across his desk.
“Adventure content is dead, kid. The numbers don’t lie,” he’d said, tapping a graph that resembled a ski slope. “But I’ve got your golden ticket—Astrid Montclair. She’s the queen of beauty; you’re the king of stunts. It’s a match made in algorithm heaven!”
I’d 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 we’d have to make. The families that would be affected. The healthcare packages that would vanish—including the one covering my mom’s treatments.
Funny how fast principles disappear when reality comes knocking.
Keep smiling. Stay relevant. Don’t let them see you crack.
That mantra’s been my soundtrack ever since.
At first, it wasn’t 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 whatrealfelt 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 mother’s medications.” Each word was another brick in the prison I’d built myself.
And he was right. I couldn’t. Still can’t.
Then Astrid proposed the engagement as if she was launching a new product line. “Think of the numbers! We’ll break the internet!”
I had just nodded, already dead inside, wondering if this was what my life was meant to be—a 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 can’t believe I’m at Reece Dare’s wedding! He’s such relationship goals!”
Yup, that’s me. About to marry somebody I don’t even like, much less love. All for the sake of a channel I secretly wish would disappear.
Keep smiling. Stay relevant. Don’t let them see you crack.
***
AllIwantisa moment of peace before this shitshow begins. I glance hopefully at my green room door… It’s vibrating, I mean actually pulsating with thumping bass sounds. I pause, hand hovering over the knob, bracing myself. Because either I’m having a stroke, or that’s my mother rapping about WAP(that's right, wet ass pussy).
I open the door.
My mothers, Vera—better known as Mama V—and Helen, who we affectionately call Mom Hawk, are singing out explicit lyrics about the female anatomy like they’re 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 V—my brunette, curly haired mother—is a free-spirited, former drama teacher. She’s spitting Cardi B lines like she’s been recruited in an underground rap battle. She’s 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. She’s 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 I’ve heard through a thousand stupid stunts, bad decisions, and when I got my first million subscribers.
And then there’s Camila.
Fucking hell.
She’s got her camera up, but for once, she’s not the rock-steady pro I’m 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 it’s making my mind yearn to go places it shouldn’t. Especially not twenty minutes before I’m supposed to say “I do” to someone else.
“Yo, Reece!” Blaze manages between gasps. “Mama V’s got bars. We should post this video asMoms’ WAP Remix.She’s dropping lines so dirty. She’s got flow, man. I’m scared for society.”
