Chapter 34 #2
“That we know of,” Matthew replies.
The video continues:
“When authors fake date for publicity, what lines are they willing to cross? Bell and The Blade’s story isn’t romance—it’s a scam. I didn’t want to believe it, but this audio says it all. Their ‘relationship’ was nothing more than a launch strategy. For the views, the sales, the algorithm.
And if you needed more proof? I’m about to show a clip of what went down—at a professional venue, mind you—where the ‘Queen of Steam’ got on her knees for her co-star because, apparently, for Ava Bell, the only thing hotter than fake love is fucking in public.
Guess sex sells, even if you have to crawl for it.
To anyone who ever believed in this pairing—don’t worry. So did I. And that’s what makes this so disturbing. So manipulative. They have deeply mocked every one of us who thought their story meant something.”
Lena’s face transitions into a shot of the photo booth, Ava clearly on her knees inside. There’s a big enough slice in the curtain to show her between my legs, head bobbing, leaving no doubt what’s happening.
My hand is tangled in her hair, head tipped back in pleasure. The fake fireplace backdrop in the room flickers behind us as though it's cheering on the performance.
Then the camera zooms in, freezes on Ava’s position, and a red circle highlights the elf ears on her head as Lena’s voice returns, cold and cutting:
“Let’s break this down, shall we? First, we have Ava Bell—self-proclaimed Queen of Steam—inside a branded photo station, at the Bookmas Bash, wearing elf ears in some twisted author cosplay. Not even an ounce of discretion. Just straight-up sex on company property. Classy.”
The video cuts to a slow zoom on the curtain gap again, freezing on Soren’s hand in Ava’s hair.
“Soren Pembry, award-winning fantasy author, clearly enjoying his front-row seat to the Bell & Blade Circus. But don’t let the charm fool you.
This was never about romance. It was strategy.
Calculated. Cold. Fake dating to drive up engagement, turn readers into shippers, and manipulate sales with heat masquerading as heart. ”
The following slide flashes screenshots of their hashtag stats—#BellAndTheBlade climbing ShelfSpace charts, preorder numbers, even event footage of Ava and Soren laughing together.
“They didn’t fall in love. They fell into bed.
And they let you believe it was more. Now they’re out here giving blowjobs behind closed doors for bonus views—mocking the industry, their readers, and every author who actually works for it.
Still don’t believe me? Well, here’s the Queen of Steam explaining it all. ”
It cuts to the faked audio again.
Ava’s manipulated voice: “It hasn’t stopped being fake. Just because we started fucking for real.”
The screen fades to black.
Lena’s Voiceover (quiet, controlled): “Bell and The Blade wasn’t love. It was a lie you paid for. If you’d love to see the entire video, join my Patreon for a small, nominal fee. Fan art coming soon.
#EnemiesWithBenefits
#FakeLoveRealReceipts
#QueenOfSteamOrQueenOfSchemes
#BellAndTheBlade
#ShelfSpaceScandal
#PublicityPorn
#PublishingExposed
#SexSellsIntegrityDoesnt
#Fauxmance
#SexSells
#PublishingScandal
#PRPlaybook
#WhoEvenIsRealAnymore
#ScriptedShipping
#LiesAndLikes
#ScriptedSizzle
#FauxmanceConfirmed
#PromoNotPassion
#BellAndTheBladeWasBusiness
Renata exhales through her nose. “There are over a hundred thousand comments. ShelfSpace is having a meltdown. Half of them believe it’s all a scam. The other half are defending you like it’s their full-time job.”
I run a hand down my face. “Unbelievable. Matthew, get that Patreon taken down. Now!”
Fisher’s eyes bounce between us. “We need to respond. Immediately. Preferably before the New York Times gets wind of it.”
Ava is staring at the screen as though Lena’s voice climbed out of the speakers and slapped her across the face.
And despite everything, all I want is to pull her into my lap and whisper that we’ll fix this.
Together. This isn’t only about the photo booth.
It’s about whether the world believes in us.
It’s her livelihood and her career reputation on the line.
Still, Ava isn’t crying. I don’t see a hint of rage in her expression. She hasn’t even screamed. Like I am on the inside.
She stands there, pale-faced, seemingly in a state of shock. Then she whispers, “I need a minute.”
“Ava—”
“No.” Her voice cracks—it’s not breaking, but it’s being held together by force and sheer will. “I need a minute, Soren. Alone.”
I watch her as she slowly exits the hotel room.
I want to follow. Fuck, every muscle in my body is pushing me to chase her out that door, stand in that hallway with her, and make this right.
But I saw the way her fingers trembled as they wrapped around the doorknob, and pushing right now will only make it worse.
So I let her go. And then I unravel. Yep, in front of everyone.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve chewed every nail down to the quick—and I’m not even a nail biter. I’m also two whiskeys in. It’s not even ten a.m.
The room still smells like her. Peppermint. Vanilla. Sex and sadness. The clothes she wore the night before are draped across the chair like a ghost.
I can’t sit still. I can’t breathe right. So I go looking.
First, I check the lobby.
Nothing.
Then the café. The bookstore nook. The little lounge across from the elevators, where she sometimes hides when she needs quiet. I even checked the rooftop terrace and that stupid faux igloo setup from the influencer dinner. Nada.
“She’s not in the room?” Camille asks, scrolling her phone for clues, oblivious to the fact that Ava left at all.
“She never came back here,” Renata confirms.
“Maybe she needed air,” Matthew says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “Did you check outside?”
I call the front desk and talk to them again. They tell me a woman wearing a bathrobe walked out the main entrance forty-five minutes ago. Alone. No coat. No bag. No clue where she went.
My blood runs cold. And for the first time since this whole thing started, I feel an emotion I don’t know how to write through.
Panic.
Ava Bell didn’t walk away. She fucking vanished.