Chapter 4
Four
SOREN
Today’s panel fucked me. Rammed me right in the feels. It’s the first time Ava and I have ever sat side by side. Semi-close. Same air. Real words instead of digital daggers.
I spent the entire time cataloging her, watching how her eyes lit up each time she was about to deliver a killing blow. I took every hit willingly. Except the fanservice one. That one lodged itself right in my ego.
She said it with such fake sweetness, turning my whole persona into a punchline and smiling while the audience laughed along.
Maybe I deserved it. To her, I am the brand, personally providing her with ammunition almost daily online.
Still, hearing it live and in person hit different. Felt personal. She saw straight through the performance and aimed for the man beneath it.
Then I went and told her I’d read her book—the whole damn thing. The words just slipped out as if a part of me needed her to know I see her beyond the banter.
She startled, a faint flush crept up her neck, and for a moment, the room tilted on its axis. The noise, the lights, the people, all of it blurred until there was only her.
Ava Bell.
For all the fire and fight inside her, she wears a mask for the crowd. A lot like someone else I know. I see it now. We’re two people pretending a little too well.
Whatever anger I’d been clinging to burned off in an instant. What replaced it wasn’t gentle—it was fierce, inevitable. A pull that starts in your chest and doesn’t stop until it’s carved your name into someone else’s heartbeat.
And damn me, Ava has certainly carved hers into mine, because I am so fucking gone for this woman.
After the panel, I’d planned on asking her to grab a drink. Nothing serious, just a ceasefire over something stronger than caffeine.
And if she said no? Fine. I’d fall back on my original plan: sit on my hotel balcony with a fall-spiced bourbon, pretending the quiet didn’t feel like punishment while prepping my breakout session for tomorrow. Why battle-mages with trust issues deserve cuddles too.
Catchy title. Tragic subtext.
What I didn’t plan on was being herded into my manager’s hotel room to hammer out the details of a fake dating scheme between The Blade and The Queen of Steam.
Her publicist paces the room while she and Camille deconstruct every angle of this PR stunt—equal parts absurd and genius. They talk numbers: follower metrics, engagement spikes, viral potential. On paper, it’s flawless. Strategic. A guaranteed visibility boost for both of us.
I, for one, love the idea.
Ava, however, clearly doesn’t. She’s sitting stiffly on the edge of an armchair, ready to jump out the window if someone says “holiday boyfriend” again.
This plan gives me the perfect excuse to orbit Ava Bell without anyone questioning my motives.
This isn’t a strategy.
It’s not a crush.
It’s bigger. Messier. Something more that doesn’t fit into neat, professional boxes.
“This is the stupidest idea ever.” Ava’s fingers keep drifting to the hem of her dress, tugging, smoothing, more tugging.
I wish she’d stop doing that. Every nervous pull hikes the fabric a little higher, and my focus a little lower. It’s torture in high definition.
Yeah, I should look away—be a gentleman, or at least pretend to be—but the truth is, I don’t want to. Those legs are toned, restless, impossible not to notice, and have officially rerouted my moral compass.
I force my eyes upward, to her face. My heart squeezes.
Ava’s nervous. Guarded. Human in a way that doesn’t fit the image I built of her online.
She’s not the clever nemesis I spar with for clicks—she’s layered, real, entirely herself.
That combination does something to me I can’t disguise with arrogance or charm.
Because it’s not just her body I want.
It’s her pages.
Her chaos.
Her order.
Her unapologetic logic and that soft, stubborn heart she tries so hard to tuck away.
I want to burrow under every one of those layers, especially the ones wrapped in cable-knit and hiding in plain sight.
And this fake dating scheme is my chance.
Except, I have so many questions.
Like, are we supposed to hold hands at events?
Are we kissing? In public? On camera?
Do I tell her I’ve read every single one of her books, not just The Lumberjack’s Love Letters, and loved them all?
Am I looking at her right now like she’s the love of my life… all while she stares at me like I’m a fungal infection she can’t legally sue?
Did I say that last one out loud? Or in my head?
Either way, her eyebrow twitched. So… not great.
Fuck. Me. What am I thinking?
Ava Bell hates me, so unless this plan includes a step-by-step guide on how to win over a woman who’s made a brand out of slandering my literary kinks—this thing’s going to go down in flames.
Renata stops pacing, turns, addresses Ava. “We’re talking a few more appearances. A dozen posts per event minimum, and at least five shared videos for ShelfSpace. You two are already trending. Let’s keep the momentum going.”
Ava makes a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a dying reindeer.
My publicist, Camille, nods approvingly.
“We’ll soft-launch the relationship with a teaser post tonight, then make it official with a pumpkin patch press conference.
Full couple content. Cozy aesthetic. Bonus points for falling leaves.
You’ll be the hottest couple on the internet.
Next to Asher Cross and Celeste Monroe, of course. ”
Ava turns to me, an expression full of pure heroine betrayal on her pretty face. “This is insane.”
“Possibly,” I say, because yeah it is. Or is it?
Shaking her head in disbelief, she grimaces. “What’s in it for you?”
“It’s good marketing,” I add, trying to get her to look at me again.
She does. With narrow eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s mentally hurling the decorative ceramic pumpkin at my face right now. I’ll take it.
Camille clears her throat like she’s been waiting for her cue. “And it’ll be good for Soren’s image. A relationship makes him more relatable. Less… untouchable bad boy, more fan favorite.”
“You do know I’m sitting in the room, right?” I say. “You don’t have to speak about me in third person.”
“Are you actually considering this?” Ava folds her arms over her chest, which pushes her tits up in a way that does very unhelpful things to my concentration—and Captain Pembry. “You don’t need the extra numbers, Soren.”
No, but apparently I do need a moment to remember how words work. Or to stop imagining what my name might sound like with less judgment and more breathlessness.
And true. I’m not hurting for attention.
My last book broke the preorder record for fantasy that month.
Sure, the movie adaptation for my most popular series has been in “development” longer than most celebrity marriages.
Needless to say, I’m fine. But Camille isn’t wrong.
And publicity never hurts. Especially when I’m about to launch a spin-off with an ambiguous demon prince and a possessive, foul-mouthed shadow wolf, with a flair for violence.
Ava, though? She could use the win. She’s brilliant, legendary good. I don’t understand why the numbers don’t match the hype.
So, maybe this fake dating, staged proximity, and sudden spotlight will give her the boost she deserves. If I can help with that, I will.
Never mind the fact that I plan to use every second of this scheme to my advantage and get to know Ava beyond the screen.
Also, if we’re being brutally honest... I’m extremely curious what it would feel like if Ava Bell had to touch me in public.
Or at all. Pretend to flirt. Pretend to adore me.
She’s sassy-tongued and tightly wound, allergic to spontaneity and joyfully resistant to fun—which means she’s precisely the kind of woman I want to peel apart. Layer by stubborn, sarcastic layer.
And yes. I mean clothes too. I want to know what she hides under her armor, her attitude, her hemline. All of it.
It’d also be… I don’t know. Nice, I guess. To have someone to spend the holidays with.
I’m not getting into that right now, though. That’s a different chapter.
Or maybe an epilogue.
One I haven't written yet.
“You’re right, I don’t need the numbers,” I say, rubbing my thumb back and forth over chin. “But tell me, Bells—when else am I going to get the chance to fake-date the romance author who claims she hates me? That’s fun waiting to happen.”
Camille’s attention shifts to Ava. “It’s two months. Max. In January, we end it. A joint statement. Focus on writing. Blah blah, creative growth. Everyone moves on.”
“Two months,” Ava repeats, voice brittle. “Of pretending we’re dating. In public.”
“In matching outfits,” Renata adds with zero remorse.
Ava groans. She gets up and walks over to the mini bar, snatches a tiny bottle of whiskey and takes a sip. Based on the face she just made, it’s not strong enough to process what’s happening.
“We should set some ground rules,” I offer.
“Ground rules?” Ava asks, her brow furrowed in that adorable way she gets when she’s still working everything out in that whip-smart, controlling head of hers.
“Sure. That way you don’t accidentally stab me with a candy cane at the Snowflake Gala when I try to put my arm around you.”
Camille, ever the opportunist, steps in. “Boundaries are good. Let’s make a list.”
“No sharing a room,” Ava replies immediately.
“Actually…” I clear my throat, eyes flicking over at our managers for a brief second. “If we’re trying to make this believable, wouldn’t it be weird if we didn’t share a room at least once? Or dare I say, thrice.”
Ava whips her head toward me, her expression full of disgust. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s not like I suggested we film a sex tape and leak it on ShelfSpace.” I drag two fingers slowly down my jaw, skimming the edge of my beard with mock thoughtfulness. “I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to the sex tape—strictly for realism, of course.”
Before Ava can protest, I hold up a hand. “It would be for optics. We’re supposed to be a couple. If anyone finds out we’re not staying together—at some point—it’ll kill the illusion before it starts.”
Silence follows, settling heavy in my chest.
Camille and Renata both glance at each other but say nothing, clearly crossing every PR-obsessed finger they have that Ava might actually agree to this.
I won’t lie—I’m crossing mine too.
“No weird touching,” she finally says.
“And your definition of weird would be…”
She shoots me a glare. “No touching unless it’s for the camera. And even then, I pick the pose.”
“Understood. No unsanctioned snuggling.”
Renata scrolls through her tablet. “We’ll need a few public moments that suggest intimacy—breakfasts, post-panel hangouts, maybe a cozy bookstore date. Let’s make it swoony, and memorable.”
Ava glares at her for a long while. “I don’t understand.”
Camille cuts in. “A date. Low-key. Paparazzi bait without being obvious that it’s paparazzi bait. Coffee shop window seats and a shared pastry. It’s about the illusion of closeness without forcing it.”
Ava sneers. Shakes her head at me. “You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”
“Can you blame me? If pretending to be your boyfriend comes with flannel sheets and strategic cuddling, sign me up. I’m only trying to be thorough in my role.”
Ava stares down at the glass in her hand, quiet. Her brow furrows again. This time, I don’t see irritation or confusion. She’s thinking, turning it over, weighing the options, treating this as if it's a negotiation for her soul. I hate that for her. But I also, very much, want to do this.
So I nudge a little.
“How have your sales been the last few days?” I ask casually.
Renata answers for her. “Steady. Good, even.”
I look right at Ava. “And today?”
Renata lifts her tablet. Scrolls. Then beams. “She’s up eighty percent.”
Boom. Mic drop.
Ava’s face changes. There goes the fight between pride and logic. Control and possibility.
It’s settled.
“So, you in, Bells?”
Ava lifts her gaze. “Don’t call me that.”
“All couples have cute nicknames for each other.” I cross one leg over the other. “What’s mine?”
“Brood Lightyear,” she replies instantly.
“To infinity and beyond, huh?” I tilt my head. “Is that… a request?”
Ava rolls her eyes then moves toward her publicist. “I want a detailed itinerary, a veto on all captions, and the right to block his number after New Year’s.”
“Deal.” I raise my glass. Her attention snaps back to me. “Cheers to love.”
Renata lights up. Camille starts on the paperwork.
My eyes slide over to Ava. She’s ringing her hands, twisting them all up, probably rethinking every career decision that led her here.
Fake dating.
Me and Ava Bell.
This might be the best worst idea ever.
Or the best.