Chapter 4
MELODY
Icurled deeper into the plush cushions of my window seat. The silk robe, courtesy of a luxury loungewear brand that had courted me for months, wrapped around me. I sipped my mint tea and tried to relax.
My phone sat face-up on my thigh, the screen brightness turned down low. Any minute now. Any second.
Across the room, my dress for tomorrow’s wedding hung on the back of my door. I’d spent three hours styling it with the perfect accessories yesterday. Delicate gold jewelry, a clutch that complemented without competing, and a delicate pair of heels that were new and promised to kill my feet.
I liked heels. Well, liked was a strong word. I appreciated that they made my legs look longer and lifted my butt. But my feet did not enjoy them. I usually wore sneakers. It was my thing. I probably had over a hundred pairs. Most of them were sent to me because I was an influencer.
I loved my career. I built it brick by brick and was very proud of it.
I refreshed my Instagram feed for the hundredth time, then immediately felt silly for it. The Femme Curve launch was scheduled for nine p.m. I still had a few minutes. I needed to be patient, but patience had never been my strong suit.
This partnership had been six months in the making.
Countless emails, contract negotiations, photoshoots that lasted ten hours.
But it was worth it. Femme Curve was a plus-size brand using luxury fabrics and impeccable designs that didn’t treat curves like something to hide.
When they’d approached me about being the face of their spring campaign, I had actually cried.
I took a sip of tea and let my thumb wander, scrolling aimlessly through my feed. A food blogger I followed had posted brioche French toast that looked delicious. I was randomly swiping when Austin Bancroft’s face filled my screen.
I had stumbled onto one of those gossip pages that tracked wealthy bachelors.
The photo was recent. Austin at some charity gala, looking like sin in a tuxedo.
Dark hair perfectly tousled, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes.
Even through a screen, they held a dangerous sort of mischief.
Before I could stop myself, I tapped through to his profile.
“Stupid,” I muttered, but I didn’t stop scrolling.
Photo after photo of the quintessential playboy lifestyle. Austin on a yacht in the Mediterranean, shirtless and laughing. Austin at a club, a leggy brunette tucked under his arm. Austin stepping out of a sports car looking very sexy.
And the women? Wow.
They were beautiful, of course, but it was more than that.
They were a type. Slender limbs that seemed to go on forever.
Tiny waists I could probably circle with my hands.
Perky breasts and round bottoms that seemed to defy gravity.
They wore bandage dresses and sky-high heels.
They looked like they had never struggled to find jeans that fit or worried about their arms in a sleeveless top.
“Don’t do this,” I said out loud to my empty bedroom. “You know better.”
I did know better. I’d built an entire platform on body acceptance and self-love.
I’d helped thousands of women see their beauty.
But knowing better didn’t always stop the old thoughts from creeping in.
Didn’t stop the whisper that said I’d never be the kind of woman a man like Austin Bancroft would look at twice.
Not that I wanted him to look at me. The man was notorious, a walking red flag wrapped in expensive suits.
My phone buzzed in my hand. The alarm I had set. It was time.
My heart kicked into overdrive as I navigated to Femme Curve’s Instagram page. The launch post was there, pinned at the top. The photo they’d chosen was one of my favorites from the shoot—me in a flowing pistachio green dress, laughing genuinely at something the photographer had said.
The caption was perfect: “Introducing our Spring Collection with @MelodyStephens. Fashion for everybody. Luxury for everyone.”
I held my breath and refreshed. The likes were already climbing. Comments poured in.
“Finally! This is what we’ve been waiting for!”
“Melody looks STUNNING”
“That dress!! Where can I buy it??”
“This is representation!”
My vision blurred with tears. This was it. This was everything I’d worked for.
I grabbed my laptop from the nightstand and set up for a live.
My hair was in rollers, large barrel curls that would be perfect and bouncy for tomorrow.
My face was shiny from the overnight treatment I’d slathered on after my extensive skincare routine.
I looked like I was ready for bed, not ready to address potentially hundreds of thousands of people.
But my community had seen me like this before. That was the point, authenticity over perfection. They loved when I showed them the real me. It made me real and not just some always perfect influencer.
I started the live. Within seconds, viewers flooded in.
“Oh my god, hi, everyone!” I couldn’t keep the smile off my face, even as tears threatened to spill over. “I’m sorry I’m a mess right now. I know I look ridiculous in my curlers, but I had to jump on and talk to you all about the Femme Curve launch!”
The comments scrolled by so fast I could barely read them.
“We love you, Melody!”
“You’re glowing!”
“Crying happy tears with you!”
“The collection is stunning!”
“I’m just—” I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. “I’m so grateful. When Femme Curve approached me about this partnership, I couldn’t believe it. And to see all of you showing up, supporting not just me but what we’re trying to do for inclusive fashion, it’s amazing.”
My voice cracked. I laughed through tears.
“We’re so proud of you!”
“You deserve this!”
“This is just the beginning!”
I wiped at my eyes. “You all know this has been a journey. Finding clothes that made me feel beautiful, that celebrated my body instead of trying to hide it. And if this partnership can help other women feel that same way, then we are all better off.”
The comments shifted. It was subtle at first. A discordant note in the symphony of support.
“Wait, did anyone else notice the photos?”
“Something looks off.”
“Why does she look different in the campaign?”
My smile faltered. “What? What do you mean?”
I pulled up Femme Curve’s page on my laptop while keeping the live running. I scrolled through the official campaign photos they had posted. At first, I didn’t see it. There I was in the blue dress. The rose-colored pantsuit. The stunning evening gown with the draped neckline.
Then I looked closer. My stomach dropped. The woman in those photos looked like me. Had my face, my hair, my smile. But the body was not mine.
“No,” I whispered.
They’d slimmed me down. Not dramatically, not obviously, but enough.
Smoothed away the soft curve of my lower belly.
Trimmed my thighs. Reduced my arms. Made my waist impossibly narrow.
Airbrushed the slight double chin I got from certain angles.
Even my breasts looked different, higher. Smaller when I zoomed in.
The live chat was exploding now.
“They edited her??”
“This is exactly what we’re fighting against!”
“Melody, did you approve this?”
“FRAUD”
“Sell out”
“How could you let them do this?”
“I didn’t—” My voice came out strangled. “I had no idea. I never approved editing the pics this way.”
But no one was listening. The comments scrolled faster, angrier.
“Please, listen. I didn’t know they were going to edit the photos. That was never part of our agreement. I would never do that. You all know how I feel about that kind of thing.”
And then I noticed the word no influencer or celebrity wants to see associated with their name.
Canceled.
The word appeared over and over. Canceled. Canceled. Canceled.
I could barely see the screen through my tears now. The viewer count was still climbing. People loved a disaster, apparently. It was the thing I had been warned about. The higher your pedestal, the harder the fall.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I’m so sorry.”
But the comments were merciless. They were downright mean and hateful and definitely not what I needed to be reading.
My finger found the end button. I tapped it. The screen went black. Silence crashed over me like a wave. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at my reflection in the darkened screen.
My phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Twenty times in rapid succession.
Notifications. Hundreds of them.
I couldn’t make myself look. How had this happened? I reviewed contracts. I had lawyers look at everything before I signed. There had been explicit language about authenticity.
Had there been language about photo editing? I tried to remember, but my brain felt like cotton. Surely, I would have insisted. Surely, my team would have caught it.
Unless they added it later.
My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
I picked it up, hands still shaking, and made myself look.
The notifications were overwhelming. Comments on every post. DMs flooding in. Tags multiplying. But it wasn’t just on Instagram. Every social media platform was lighting up.
Tomorrow’s wedding suddenly felt impossible. How could I show up at Sophie’s wedding with this scandal breaking? Everyone would be whispering. Taking photos. Posting about the fallen influencer who betrayed everything she claimed to stand for.
I thought about texting Cleo, but what would I even say? She’d been so excited about this campaign. So proud.
My phone lit up. A text from Cleo. “Babe. What the FUCK. Call me.”
I couldn’t. Not yet. If I heard her voice, the last thread of composure I was clinging to would snap entirely.
I got up and walked to my bedroom. The robe felt like a hair sweater now. I untied the belt, dropped it to the floor, and walked into my huge closet. All the way to the back. Past the dresses from brands hoping I would wear their clothing and get photographed. Past the handbags and various blouses.
I dropped to my knees and pulled out a tote. I found what I was looking for. An old sweatshirt, soft from years of wear. Baggy sweatpants. The kind of clothes I used to hide in before I’d found my confidence.
I pulled them on. It felt like coming home after extensive travel. It felt like putting on a suit of armor. I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin despite the warmth of the room. I made myself as small as possible and closed my eyes.
A sob finally broke free from my chest. Then another. Then I couldn’t stop.
I cried for the campaign I’d been so proud of. For the trust I’d broken, intentionally or not. For the little girl I’d been who would never see herself reflected in fashion magazines and had grown up thinking her body was wrong. I tried so hard to make sure other little girls didn’t feel that way.
And I had failed.
Tomorrow, I was supposed to go to a wedding. Smile for cameras. Make small talk with New York society. Pretend everything was fine.
Everything I built was crashing down.
And I had no idea how to stop it.