20. Ashlyn
CHAPTER 20
Ashlyn
My phone pings just as I’m getting out of the shower, steam clinging to the mirror in a hazy film. I pull on a robe, toweling my hair dry as I glance at the screen.
Xayden: Heads-up—some tabloid’s running a story about us. Gist is “Has Primal Pulse found their omega in Ashlyn Robinson?” Wanted you to know before you see it elsewhere. We’ve got your back.
My heart thumps, a quick, nervous rhythm in my chest. Their omega? The words jar me, flipping my stomach into knots. I drop my towel on the sink and sit down onto the edge of the tub, opening my web browser with trembling fingers.
It doesn’t take long to find the article—my name and the band’s in the same headline, along with a photo of the diner. There I am, crammed between Jake and Xayden, smiling in that shy way I do when I’m trying not to melt under their attention. My face is unmistakably pink.
I skim the text, my heart pounding harder with each sentence. They’re speculating about an “omega pack up” with the famous Primal Pulse …like I’m some prize to be claimed. I can’t decide if I’m furious or mortified. Maybe both. I exhale, a shaky breath that doesn’t steady me in the slightest.
The phone dings again—another message, but this time it’s from Shelley.
Shelley: Come see me as soon as you can. We need to talk about this article.
I stare at it, a sinking feeling settling in my gut. Of course she’s seen it. I throw on clothes in record time—jeans, a sweater, not exactly camera-ready but decent enough. My hair’s still damp, but I can’t muster the energy to care.
When I step into Shelley’s office, she’s seated behind her massive glass desk, phone to her ear. She motions me in, finishing up the call with that polished, professional smile I’ve seen a thousand times. She hangs up and looks at me, her expression unreadable for half a second before she brightens, as if flipping a switch.
“Have you seen it?” she asks, cutting right to the chase.
I nod, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. “Yeah. Has Primal Pulse found their omega? ” I can’t keep the bitterness from seeping into my tone. “I’d love to say it’s just trashy gossip, but they’ve got pictures.”
Shelley smiles, but there’s a spark of excitement in her eyes. “Trashy or not, it’s getting attention. And attention, my dear, is ratings. For both your show and the band.”
I stare at her, a slow wave of apprehension crawling up my spine. “Shelley, please tell me you’re not about to suggest?—”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “A strategic arrangement. A fake dating situation. Just like you did with Rafe a few years back.”
My stomach clenches at the memories of that arrangement I pulled off with Rafe—staged photos, orchestrated dates, every laugh and gesture painted on for the cameras. It worked wonders for the show and his image, but it left me feeling hollow.
I sink into a chair, meeting Shelley’s gaze. “You’re serious? You want me to—what, pretend to be with them? All of them? You know our history.”
She arches an eyebrow, letting out a small laugh that sets my nerves on edge. “Not necessarily all of them. Just one would handle the press angle nicely. Or maybe two, if we need to ramp up the drama. You know the audience loves a good scandal, and what’s more scandalous than a broken pack?”
Her words hit home. I’ve already done that for real, I don’t need a repeat , I think. “And if I say no? If they say no?”
Shelley exhales, leaning back in her chair. “Look, Ash, I’m not forcing you into anything. I know you all have a past. But this is a golden opportunity. Omega’s Top Model has been slipping in the ratings, and with the band’s new album about to drop, they could use a publicity bump. It’d be a win-win, and we’d get to control the narrative—shut down the rumor mill before it spins even wilder stories.”
I open my mouth to protest, but the words don’t come out. My mind whirls with possible scenarios: me posing for paparazzi shots, laughing into Todd’s shoulder or letting Jake hold my hand for the cameras. Maybe I show up with West at some event, or Xayden leads me through a crowd, flipping off the cameras for maximum effect.
An ache radiates in my chest, because part of me wonders— would it be so bad? I swallow that thought down. “Shelley, I don’t want to make a spectacle of this… of me. I’m just starting to figure out where I stand with them. I’m not sure a fake relationship is the right move.”
Her phone dings, and she glances at it, frustration tightening her features. “Look, Ash,” she says, meeting my gaze, “I know this is complicated. But I have to think about the show. And you have to think about your future. The tabloids are already running wild. This way, you can direct the narrative. You won’t be a victim to it.”
I clench my fists in my lap, fighting the swirl of emotions. She’s not entirely wrong—if the headlines are going to spin a story, part of me would rather have some control. But fake dating ? With them? On top of the real feelings I can’t seem to get a handle on?
I drag in a breath, forcing myself to remain calm. “I’ll… think about it.”
Shelley perks up, that showbiz shine returning to her smile. “Good. I’ll need to know soon. We can draw up a plan, keep it simple—just enough photos and statements to satisfy the public. Then you can call it off anytime.”
I stand, my legs feeling shaky. “I’ll let you know,” I murmur, turning to leave before she can rope me into more specifics.
What won’t I do for the show? At this point, it feels like I don’t have much choice. It will benefit everyone in some way for me to agree to this. And I’ve lived my life since leaving the guys like this, taking every opportunity to better my career as it came. It isn’t even the first time Shelley has had me fake-dating someone. She knows my dedication, it’s why we get along so well. Because I know she can be demanding instead of nice about all of this.
As I step out of her office, my phone vibrates in my pocket—probably the guys, or maybe more news alerts. It’s all too much. Fake dating? My heart thumps painfully at the idea. Because for me, there’s no fake about how I feel. Even if it terrifies me to admit it.
I keep walking, phone buzzing against my thigh, and my mind churns through Shelley's proposition. I’m torn between the safety of controlling the public story and the danger of letting these men back into my heart—fake or not.
Maybe it’s not the worst idea, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of my mind. But I grit my teeth and push that down. Because if I fall into this charade, I might just lose what's left of my self-control—especially since I'm not sure I want to fake anything with them at all.