The Alpha Queen I Love Is Back

The world looked different from thirty thousand feet. The clouds were like cotton candy stretched across the horizon, the sun melting into them in streaks of gold and rose.

My camera was already rolling, balanced perfectly on the mount in front of my seat.

#TravelWithLuna would be trending again by tonight.

“Good lighting is free lighting,” I murmured into the lens, smiling just enough for my cheekbones to catch the glow.

“And today… we are landing in paradise.” Paradise, in this case, was Bacnotania — an island nation where the sand was white as sugar and the resorts made Maldives look budget.

My inbox was crammed with offers to promote their luxury spas, ocean villas, and exclusive clubs. But I wasn’t here just for ad money. I wanted the series to feel different — rawer, moodier, cinematic.

Behind the curated smiles, I had been restless for months. My followers wouldn’t see that. They’d see the girl who “lives the dream,” not the one who wakes at three a.m., heart pounding from another dream of running barefoot through a silver-lit forest. They didn’t hear the phantom sound of howls that lingered in my ears.

The plane dipped lower, and Bacnotania came into view. Mountains clawed at the clouds, dense forests unfurled like emerald waves, and beaches curved in lazy half-moons. For a moment, I forgot the camera was even on. Something in my chest tightened — a pull, like an invisible string was tethering me to that wild green heart of the island.

My phone buzzed. Clara: Touch down yet? Don’t forget to capture the “first step out” moment! Clara was my manager-slash-friend, or as I liked to call her, my “content drill sergeant.”

I typed back: On it. I’ll make it look like I’m stepping into another world. The airport was small, polished, and buzzing with tourists pulling designer luggage. I hit record as the sliding doors opened. Sunlight poured over me in a way that felt… personal. The air was warm, salted with sea breeze, but threaded with something sharper, wilder — like pine and rain.

The driver held a sign with my name in clean, gold letters. “Miss Veyra, welcome to Bacnotania,” he said, voice accented. “Mr. Draven’s resort sends their regards.”

Mr. Draven? My curiosity pricked, but I played it cool. Probably the billionaire owner whose name was on half the brochures. The drive to the resort was a blur of coastline and jungle. The villas rose like art pieces against the cliffs, each framed by infinity pools spilling into the horizon. My villa was a glass-and-wood masterpiece overlooking the sea. Inside, floor-to-ceiling windows framed a sky that was deepening into violet. Perfect lighting.

I changed into a silk dress, pale gold to match the sunset, and padded barefoot onto the deck. The camera hummed as I filmed the ocean far below, the waves catching fire in the dying light. I added soft background music, my voice low and intimate:

“There’s something about this place… like I’ve