Chapter 4: The Dress, the Betrayal, and the Cameras

After hours on the road—everyone half-asleep—we finally pulled up to the guesthouse.

The sun was setting, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. The guesthouse stood just steps from the sand, surf roaring in the background. I rolled down the window, inhaling the salty air. For a moment, the cameras faded away and I just felt lucky to be here.

Silver Harbor was basically paradise—right on the ocean, guesthouse perched on the sand.

Seagulls circled overhead, and the smell of grilled shrimp drifted from a nearby shack. Fairy lights twinkled on the porch. I could already picture Autumn posing there, hair catching the last light.

Caleb gave us a nod, grabbed his suitcase, and vanished upstairs, solo.

He moved like he’d done this a thousand times, not looking back. I watched him go, curious but keeping my distance. Guy needed his space.

I couldn’t help watching him for a second. Autumn leaned in, gossip mode: "He’s the captain of Wolfpack Team. Heard the sponsor made him come to boost the team’s popularity."

She dropped her voice. "He’d rather be gaming, I bet. But hey, at least he’s cute."

"No wonder he’s not talking to anyone," I nodded, popping open my suitcase.

"I brought so many outfits for beach photos. The sunset is perfect—the scenery’s unreal. Let me take some pictures of you!"

I started laying out clothes, already planning the shots: Autumn on the dunes, Autumn by the waves, Autumn with the wind in her hair. This was my happy place.

"You really brought all this?" Autumn’s eyes went wide.

She dove into the pile, excitement bubbling up. "You’re the best, Nina. Seriously."

"Of course!" I spread the clothes on the couch. "Some are brand gifts, some you bought and never wore. If I thought it’d look good, I packed it. I even brought tons of matching accessories."

I held up a floppy sunhat, waggling my eyebrows. "Trust me, we’re about to have the most Instagrammable vacation ever."

Autumn’s eyes sparkled as she picked out a light blue tie-dye boho dress, tossed on a beige knit shawl, and let her hair fall in soft waves—she looked almost too good to be real.

I clipped a seashell barrette in her hair, stepping back to admire my work. She spun around, laughing, and for a second, I forgot the cameras existed. She was just my best friend, glowing in the last light of day.

I let out a long, happy sigh—Autumn was a work of art, honestly, like she’d just wandered out of a dream. Unreal.

I couldn’t help myself. I snapped a quick photo. "You look like you just stepped out of a romance novel," I teased, grinning.

All these years as friends, my favorite thing has always been dressing her up and snapping photos. Most of her iconic shots? All me.

I flashed back to high school, turning the backyard into a DIY studio, bedsheets for backdrops. Some things never change, and I loved her for letting me play photographer all this time.

I felt a swell of pride, tweaking her dress for the perfect shot—when I heard a faint ripping sound behind me.

That sound made my heart plummet. I spun around, dread pooling in my stomach like a lead weight.

Then came Jasmine’s whine: "This dress is way too tight! I can’t even get it on!"

Her voice was loud, drawing the cameraman’s attention like a moth to drama. My head throbbed.

My heart skipped a beat. I turned around, and there was Jasmine, strutting out of the bathroom in a pure white dress from my suitcase—one I hadn’t even unpacked yet.

She posed in the doorway, tugging at the fabric like she was on Project Runway. The dress was all wrong on her, seams screaming for mercy.

I rushed over, furious. "Who said you could take that?"

My voice shook, but I held my ground. The audacity!

"Aren’t you taking pictures of us? You laid out all those clothes—aren’t we supposed to pick?" Jasmine replied, completely shameless.

She shrugged, playing innocent. I could see right through it, but she was already performing for the cameras, angling for sympathy.

Seeing her act so bold, my brain just blanked with anger. "These clothes aren’t for you! Even if you wanted to borrow something, why not ask first?"

I clenched my fists, fighting to keep my cool. The cameraman was zooming in, loving every second.

“You two were chatting so much, I didn’t want to interrupt.” Jasmine glanced at the cameraman, softening her voice. “Your suitcase was open, the clothes were right there. I thought we could pick whatever… I misunderstood, sorry…”

She fluttered her lashes, voice trembling just enough to sound believable. I wasn’t buying it. Not even a little.

I pressed my lips together, staring at the dress on her.

My stomach twisted. That dress was special—I’d spent weeks saving for it, picturing Autumn in it the whole time. Now it was stretched and ruined, and Jasmine acted like it was nothing.

I bought that dress just for Autumn—shoulder-baring, layers of tulle. The second I saw it, I knew it was hers. I scraped together my savings to buy it as a gift. Now Jasmine had forced it on, and the waist had a long tear.

My eyes stung, but I blinked back tears. The damage was done. Threads hung loose, fabric warped. It wasn’t just a dress—it was a memory, trashed.

It was ruined!

The cameraman zoomed in, savoring the drama.

I saw my own reflection in the lens—hurt, angry, and totally exposed. The world was about to watch me snap, and honestly? I didn’t care.

Jasmine reached out, eyes shining with crocodile tears. "Sorry, don’t be mad. I didn’t know you weren’t planning to take pictures of me…"

She laid it on thick, voice wobbling. I jerked my arm away, refusing to play her game.

"The dress was too tight, I accidentally ripped it. But it’s fine, I’ll pay you for it…"

She said it like she was doing me a favor, like money could fix it. My jaw clenched so hard I thought I’d crack a tooth.

I looked her dead in the eye, cold as ice. "You really don’t know your own size? If it doesn’t fit, why force it? Do you do this in boutiques too?"

My words were sharp, every syllable loaded. It wasn’t just about the dress—it was about respect, and she never seemed to get that.

Tears rolled down Jasmine’s cheeks, big and dramatic. "Sorry, I didn’t know it would tear so easily…"

She sobbed, just loud enough for the mics. I crossed my arms and stared her down, not offering an ounce of comfort.

The livestream chat exploded—

[Jasmine apologized and offered to pay, but Nina just won’t let it go! What more does she want?]

[Heh! Nina is a joke. She thinks she can scam our Jasmine with some cheap mall dress? Our Jasmine only wears designer brands—she’s doing you a favor just putting it on!]

[I’ve figured it out—Nina is just isolating Jasmine, bringing all those pretty clothes for Autumn and taking her pictures, just desperate to suck up and chase clout. Gross!]

My phone buzzed with hate, but I stood my ground, refusing to let Jasmine—or the internet—rewrite the story. Not this time. Not ever.