This is just an idea I came up with for the Love Island fans but it's based in The Real World universe. I love me some Olandria
The SUV door swung open, and the Georgia heat hit me like a slap. I stepped out, sunglasses on, duffel slung over my shoulder, trying to keep my cool even though the cameras were everywhere. They said this wasn't about social media, but damn if the production crew didn't have the biggest lenses in my face already.
The house sat on a hill, all white stone and glass, like something out of a rap video. Big enough for ten influencers, but not big enough for ten egos.
I was the first one out here until I heard heels clicking behind me.
"Lawd, it's hotter than Satan's backyard out here," a honeyed voice said. I turned, and there she was. Olandria. Curvy in a sundress, hair laid to perfection, that southern drawl dripping like honey. She smiled at me, teeth perfect, lips glossy.
"Well, hey. You must be YN?"
"That's me." I said, giving her a once-over I didn't bother hiding. "You from around here?"
"No, I'm from Alabama, baby. Southern belle to the bone." she said, laughing softly before grabbing her Louis Vuitton bag out the trunk.
Great. First five seconds and my gay ass was already in trouble.
One by one, the rest of the crew started showing up. Clarke came in next—long legs, long hair, looking like she just stepped off a cheer mat and into an Instagram reel. Then Chelley, tall, dark skin, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She barely said a word, just tossed her bag over her shoulder and walked inside like she owned the place.
"Damn." I muttered under my breath.
Then I saw her.
Huda.
Black leggings, sports bra, body sculpted like a Greek statue. She wasn't even trying... She walked up with this confidence that made the air feel heavier. She glanced at me once, slow, like she already knew I'd be looking.
"You're YN, right?" she said, voice low and smooth.
"Yeah." I said, trying not to sound too thirsty. "And you're..."
"Huda." she said, lips curling into the smallest smile before she brushed past me with her gym bag.
Lord, have mercy.
By the time Amaya, Nic, Taylor, Jeremiah, and Ace showed up, the energy in the house was already chaotic. Luggage everywhere, people calling dibs on rooms, the whole nine.
We all ended up in the living room, ten strangers with nothing but content careers and egos in common. The producers handed us the rules:
No phones.
No personal cameras.
Three months.
Work shifts at their club to "earn" our living.
"Guess we're about to find out who we really are." Clarke said, laughing nervously.
I looked around at everyone, then back at Huda and Olandria... two women on opposite ends of the couch, both looking fine as hell.
Yeah. I had a feeling this summer was about to be real messy.
The house was ridiculous. Open-concept everything, marble floors, glass walls that looked out onto a pool so big it could've been a resort. A floating staircase curved up to the second floor like some modern art piece. Cameras were mounted in every corner—reminding us that privacy was about to be a luxury.
