Blinded

Chapter 5

I didn't mean to go viral. Again. But the internet had other plans.

The first thing I heard that morning was the nonstop buzz of my phone vibrating against my nightstand like it was about to crack the glass.

I groaned, rolled over, and grabbed it—eyes still squinting, lashes heavy from sleep, bonnet halfway off my head. The screen blinded me.

179.3k new likes.
42.1k new followers.
12 missed calls.
DM requests: 3,081.

"What the hell?"

I blinked hard, heart stuttering in my chest. Instagram was exploding. I clicked the first notification.

@throwbackshotties posted a video of you.

It was that clip—one I hadn't thought about in months. I was still in North Carolina, seventeen, dancing at some packed-out party in my cousin's basement. I had on that low-rise mini skirt that sat just right on my hips and that tiny white tank top tied in the back. The red lights, the bass in the background, the way I moved...

The video was captioned:
"Y'all let her leave NC?! This gotta be the baddest one I've seen all year."
And the comments were a circus:

"She built like a cheat code."
"Her waist??? I need her @ ASAP."
"This what y'all hiding in the South?"
"She ain't real. That's AI."
"I'd risk it all, respectfully."

Every share was pushing it further—memes, duets, reaction clips. Even TikTok had caught on. I was in trending sounds, edits, "baddie" compilations.

I went super viral. And not the cute kind. The world now knows who I am kind.

My throat went dry. I tossed the covers off and stood, pacing across the soft rug under my bed.

This wasn't just a spike in attention—it was a shift. People would recognize me now. The girl in the cream-toned LA house with perfect curls and a dangerous waist.

And right on cue, my phone buzzed again.

Andre:
So that's how you was moving in Carolina?
Damn.
Dinner. Tonight. 8PM. Dress like the problem you clearly are.

I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile.

He definitely saw it.

And instead of backing off like a normal man, he doubled down. Of course he did. He was LA—smooth talk and swagger laced in every message. The kind of energy that knew it could get what it wanted if it pushed the right button.

Still... I wasn't that easy. Not anymore.

I stared at his message, then typed back:

What if I'm busy?

He replied in less than ten seconds.

Andre:
Make time.

Another text followed.
I'll send the addy later. Don't flake.

I sat down at my vanity, still wrapped in my robe, and stared at myself in the mirror. My curls were soft from the braid-out, my skin was smooth and glowing, lips still plush from the gloss I wore to bed.

I looked... expensive. And a little dangerous too.

But as I sifted through hundreds of new DMs—rappers, influencers, fake agents, even a blue-check NBA player—I had this low ache in my stomach.

Pretty privilege felt like power... until it didn't.

I thought of the guy from the party again, the one who warned me.
"Don't let him play you. That's what he does."