CHAPTER 1
NIKKI
“Can someone get me a refill?”
I waggle my empty champagne flute toward the general vicinity of the yacht’s staff, then grin into the camera. “Guys, tell me this isn’t the cutest backdrop ever,” I say to my social media followers, pivoting slowly to give them the full, shimmering glory of the Amalfi Coast.
The sun is bouncing off the waves in a shimmer of a thousand tiny diamonds, and I’m one of them, perfectly cut and sparkling. “Ocean’s serving drama. Hair’s giving goddess. And me? I’m basically one spritz away from iconic. Don’t even try to deny it.”
Someone behind me makes a sound that could be a laugh, or maybe a gag on a rogue piece of shrimp. I don't bother to look. My audience is the eight million faces staring back at me from their phone screens.
“Hold the shrimp cocktail, please,” I say in a playful, warning tone. “I have a follower with a shellfish allergy and I’m not trying to get canceled today. We’re all about positive vibes and inclusivity here, people.”
I toss the flute onto a passing tray, not bothering to check if it lands. Then I lean closer to the camera, lowering my words to that sultry whisper that drives the engagement up. “Okay, sowe’re headed to Rome next, and I know, I know, big city energy and all that. But I swear Positano has my whole soul. Legit, my entire soul. Look at this. Hold on, let me flip the view for you, give you a proper sense of the vibe.”
I double-tap my screen, quick and practiced, switching the camera to face outward. The view sweeps across the gleaming white deck of the yacht. The aqua-blue waves beyond us stretch to the horizon, dotted with other boats that look like tiny toys from our vantage point. Designer bikinis are everywhere, draped over bronzed, expensive bodies. My friends, or at least the people currently populating my carefully curated reality, are lounging and living their best lives. We’re dripping wealth, sunshine, and a thin, shimmering layer of sunscreen. It’s absolute heaven, the kind that looks effortless but costs a damn fortune.
“Oh my god, this lighting,” I sigh, turning my head to catch the sun at the right angle. I bite my lip, then adjust the top of my swimsuit ever so slightly, as if I’ve accidentally caught a little too much cleavage. “Tell me I’m not glowing. I need to know. Validation, people. It’s what I live for.”
The subtle buzz of the drone overhead is my cue. I drop into a quick, practiced three-step spin on the deck, mouthing lyrics to some trending Italian remix I barely understand, but the beat is fire. My arms arc gracefully, my body perfectly aligned with the lens. Every movement is deliberate, designed for maximum impact and maximum likes.
Then I pause mid-twirl, a flicker of something unsettling catching my eye. I squint toward the shoreline, past the postcard-perfect cliffs and the pastel houses clinging to them.
There’s a sleek, black Maserati parked haphazardly half up the dock, one door still ajar as if someone jumped out in a hurry. A man in a dark, expensive-looking suit steps out, his back to me. He’s having an animated conversation with a shadowyfigure I can’t quite make out, hands him a package, then disappears back into the car before roaring off.
That’s weird.
Whatever.
I shake my head, dismissing it. I’m here to look hot, post about it to my fans, and rake in the sponsorship deals. Anything that messes with my perfectly polished narrative is a hard pass.
“Alright, babes,” I purr into the mic, bringing my attention back to my loyal subjects. “Last look at heaven before I disappear into a rooftop bar in Rome tomorrow. Don’t worry, new content drops at midnight. You do not want to be late for this. Trust me.”
I blow a dramatic kiss to the camera, a final pout, then end the video. Quickly, I add a trending audio, a few perfect hashtags and hit upload. Holding my breath, I wait until it shows one hundred percent before exhaling. Immediately hearts and emojis explode across the comments section.
“Glowing Queen.”
“QueenNikki could never.”
“Baddie behavior.”
I immediately peel off the oversized shades, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I swear if one more person calls me ‘QueenNikki,’ I’m going to throw my ring light into the sea. And then, maybe jump in after it. Just to escape all this. I’m exhausted. Who knew influencing could be so damn hard?”
Janelle, my long-suffering assistant, snorts from her own lounger nearby. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably managing the fallout from my last ‘controversy.’ “You literallybranded yourself QueenNikki, you know. It’s your official handle, your merchandise, your entire… persona.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “I was seventeen. I also thought glitter eyeliner was a personality. And that saying ‘literally’ every other word made me deep. We all make mistakes.”
“Fair,” she concedes, a small smile playing on her lips. “Though the glitter eyeliner was a look, I’m not going to lie.”
I flop back into the lounger, pulling my phone close, scrolling through the cascade of messages, and notifications. Brand deals for skincare I’ll never use, collab requests from influencers I've never heard of, some B-lister asking if I’m free for a yacht party tonight. Pass, pass, hard pass. My thumb scrolls, scrolls, scrolls.
Then I see it.
1.8 million views.
On a video I posted five minutes ago. That’s… not normal. Even for me. My stomach tightens, a cold knot forming.
“Hey, um…” I start, trying for unconcerned. My voice sounds a little too high, even to my own ears. “Did anyone else’s video just spike super fast? Or, is it just my algorithm going wild?”
