“So what do you want me to do?” I asked. My voice came out flat.
“Come back to work. Make a video. Something, anything, that tells the audience you’re still here. Remind them why they followed you in the first place. Before the sponsors walk for good and there’s nothing left to save.” He reached across the table and gripped my arm. “Graham. I’ve been with you for ten years. I have never once asked you to do something you didn’t believe in. I’m asking now. Make the video. Get in front of the camera. Start rebuilding.”
I stared at the loch. Grey and flat and patient.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll make a video tonight.”
Dex exhaled. The tension went out of his shoulders. He squeezed my arm once, stood up, and grabbed his keys.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know this isn’t easy.”
“It’s not.”
“It’ll get better.”
He walked out. I heard his car start, heard the crunch of gravel, heard the engine fade down the road until the only sound was the wind off the loch and the clock ticking in the hall.
I sat there for a long time.
Then I set up the camera.
No ring light.No shotgun mic. No backdrop. Just me, the kitchen table, and my phone propped against a stack of books.
I’d tried to plan what I’d say. Written notes, bullet points, the kind of structured talking points I used for sponsored content. The comeback video Dex wanted.Hey guys, Fraser Kincaid here, I know it’s been a while, excited to share what’s next.
I deleted all of it.
Sat there. Stared at the small red light.
Hit record.
“Hey,” I said. I almost added the usual,Fraser Kincaid here, but the name stuck in my throat. “I know it’s been a while. I know a lot of you are wondering what’s going on, why the channel’s been dark, where I’ve been.”
I paused. Looked at the camera the way I used to look at Rose when I was trying to be honest and failing.
“I’m in Scotland. My mum’s house. I’ve been here for about a month, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to say what I need to say, so I’m just going to say it.”
I took a breath.
“Earlier this year, I went to Colorado. With cameras, with my team, with the full production setup, because that’s what I do. I go to places and I turn them into content. That’s been the job for ten years and I’ve been good at it and I’ve never once stopped to think about what it costs the places I leave behind.”
My voice wasn’t steady. I didn’t try to make it steady.
“I met someone in Colorado. I’m not going to say her name because she didn’t ask for any of this, and the least I can do is not drag her further into it. But she was real. She was running a ranch, building something from nothing, doing work that mattered, quiet work, the kind that doesn’t get clicks or subscribers or brand deals. She was good at it. And I walked into her life with cameras and followers and a name that brings attention everywhere it goes.”
I stared at the red light.
“What happened next was my fault. I let my team film content that went viral. Millions of views on a single video. And those views brought photographers, journalists, gossip accounts, strangers showing up at her property. The town she’d lived in for years turned against her because of the circus that followed me there. Her private life became public because I made it public. Not on purpose. But intent doesn’t matter when the damage is done.”
I pressed my palms flat on the table to keep my hands from shaking.
“She lost her ranch. She lost her horses. She lost her business, her reputation, her home. The details are hers and I won’t share them, but I need you to understand that the woman I care about lost everything, and I was the match that lit the fire. Not the only cause. But the one that made everything else possible. The distraction that kept her from seeing the real threat until it was too late.”
I exhaled.
“I’m not making this video to get sympathy. I’m not making it to save my career or spin a narrative or perform some version of accountability that makes me look brave. I’m making it because the truth matters, and the truth is that Fraser Kincaid’s content cost a real person her real life, and I’ve been hiding from that for a month.”
I looked directly at the camera.
