The Influencer
Prologue
I was drunk the night it all began. Last year— on April Fool’s Day of all days.
Not “wine-and-cheese-girls-night” drunk. Not “sad-movie-crying-into-a-glass-of-merlot” drunk. I mean everything-feels-like-a-good-idea drunk. Tequila at 11 p.m., vodka sodas by midnight, and whiskey neat because the bartender stopped asking if I wanted ice.
It was just me, my now ex-best friend Harper, and the kind of buzz that makes bad ideas sound brilliant. We were in the private lounge of some trendy Manhattan bar—dark leather booths, dim lighting, overpriced cocktails with Instagrammable garnishes.
Harper had been venting about her ex for twenty minutes. I let her go until the tequila kicked in. “You know what your problem is? You’re too nice.”
She laughed. “Says you, Miss #InspirationQueen. You can’t even post without a pep-talk caption.”
“Because that’s what they want,” I snapped, draining my glass. “You think I want to tell people to ‘seize the day’ in yoga pants? They don’t care about me. They just want to live through me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Please.” I leaned in, my voice lowering into something sharp and slurred. “The truth is, they’re parasites. Bottom-feeding losers. They obsess over every little thing I do because they have nothing going on in their sad little lives. They’re not fans. They’re vultures.”
Harper’s eyes widened for a second, and I thought she might cry. Instead, she smiled.
“You should say that online. I bet it would blow up.”
I thought she was joking.
I didn’t know her phone was recording.
And I definitely didn’t know she’d upload it the next morning with the caption: Looks like your favorite influencer isn’t so inspirational after all.
The video went viral before I even woke up. My name was already trending:
• #CancelEmmaBrooks
• #ParasiteQueen
• #FakeApology
By the end of the day, Harper was doing interviews about “toxic friendships,” playing the victim like she’d been rehearsing for years. She gained hundreds of thousands of followers. She got exactly what she wanted.
Me? I played the villain.
And if the whole world’s already convinced you’re the bad guy, why bother pretending to be good?
The whiskey burns like a match dropped down my throat, but I don’t flinch. Pain like this, the kind you can swallow, is manageable. The kind you can’t drink away? That’s harder.
Around me, The Drunken Unicorn buzzes with the energy of people who’ve already stopped pretending: laughter too loud, conversations too sharp, glasses clinking on sticky counters. The air smells like fried grease and stale beer, clinging to the walls like regret.
I don’t come here to cry into my drink. I come here to disappear.
My hoodie hides me, and the dim light does the rest. I keep my head low, fingers tight around the glass, as if holding it together might hold me together. My phone is back in the penthouse, buzzing itself into the ground. I don’t need to see it to know what’s happening.
The hashtags continue to flash in my mind like a neon sign:
• #CancelEmmaBrooks
• #ParasiteQueen
• #FakeApology
The bartender slides another whiskey toward me without asking. He doesn’t need to. His silence feels almost kind.
“Neat?” he asks, wiping the counter half-heartedly.
“Neater than my life,” I mutter.
He smirks and moves on, but I can feel his curiosity hanging in the air. Everyone here has a story, but mine’s already written in the headlines.
Two stools down, a man shifts closer.
“Rough night?”
His voice is steady, low enough to cut through the hum of the bar.
I glance at him. Mid-thirties, scruffy, with the kind of confidence that says he doesn’t care who I am or why I’m here.
“You don’t look like you want to talk about it,” he says, his tone amused.
“Good guess.”
“Lucky me. I’m not the kind to take hints.”
I sigh, long and loud, and turn to face him. “Fine. You want to know? I’m getting canceled. Happy now?”
His eyebrows lift. “What’d you do?”
“Why does everyone assume I did something?”
“Because nobody gets canceled for being too nice.”
For only god knows what reason, I finish telling him my story and chug my drink as if it’s some sort of grand finale. I half-slam my drink on the counter as if for emphasis. “So that’s it,” I say, staring into a freshly empty drink cup, willing it to refill itself. “I said something stupid, and now the internet’s out for blood.”
The man tilts his head, studying me. “You called people parasites. And now they’re proving you right by feeding on your misery.”
I glare at him. “Thanks for the insight, Socrates.”
He chuckles. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not defending them. But let me ask you something: do you even like the people who follow you?”
The question lands like a punch.
“You built your whole life around their opinions, didn’t you? And now that they’ve turned on you, you’re pissed—but not surprised.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Let me guess: you wanted to matter. But somewhere along the way, the likes mattered more than the life.”
“Wow,” I snap. “Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”
He shrugs. “Call it experience.”
I slide my empty glass toward the edge of the counter and stand. “Thanks for the unsolicited advice,” I say flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind when I’m running the world.”
I grab my hoodie and walk out before he can answer.
Back in my apartment, the city lights glint through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but they don’t feel bright enough to cut through the dark.
I sit at my desk, staring at my laptop. My manager’s voice echoes in my head: Cry. Apologize. Fix this.
That’s not happening.
I press “record.”
“This is for everyone who’s been jumping on the cancel bandwagon,” I say, my voice steady. “You think I owe you an apology? For what? For telling the truth? Here’s a reality check: I’ve been carrying your opinions on my back for years, and I’m done. If you can’t handle that, maybe it’s time to stop watching. I got here being myself and if I fade away for being myself, so be it. It’s not like I didn’t get filthy rich in the process.
I pause, studying my reflection in the screen. My face is sharper, harder. The mask of perfection is gone. I’m not even wearing any makeup.
“So, anyhow, if you’re here for the implosion, it’s gonna be awhile: I didn’t get here by being soft. And I’m not going anywhere. Am I sorry? No. Because if you’re not out there being yourself doing life your own way, the way I made my name being myself—doing my thing—my way, then I’m not really much of an influencer; am I? I’m not here to be your trained monkey. I’m here to empower people—not feed them table scraps of wisdom and advice so that they no longer have to hunt for it themselves.
So, if you’re butthurt over me calling you all parasites, that sounds like a you problem more than a me problem. Tune in, tune out. Whatever works for you. Because in the end what I say or don’t say is ultimately less important than what you do or say—for your own life. Go live your own truth and I’ll keep living mine.”
I hit “post.”
It doesn’t take long.
My video spreads like wildfire. Reaction videos. Think pieces. Some people love me. Some people hate me.
Sponsors pull out. New ones come along. My manager quits. I hire another. My follower count nosedives and grows like tides ebbing and flowing in the ocean, but I don’t pay attention to it anymore. I don’t care.
A new audience forms—more engaged with my content but less obsessed with me personally. I can breathe. They don’t want perfection. They want truth—raw. I do my best to give it to them. That night—the one that changed everything—is mostly forgotten now. The vultures have descended on the latest so-called-influencer —some chick I had never heard of until a few days ago, who has blown up her life by being human. This too shall pass.
According to my new manager, the old stuff is off brand now. That makes me happy.
Oh, and the guy from the bar—the one who showed me what I needed to see. His name is Tyler. I went back. We’re getting married—on April Fool’s day. Seems appropriate.
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