Chapter 9
AUSTIN
We ate our burgers in the back seat while my driver cruised around Manhattan, and it was exactly what we both needed.
Greasy food, easy conversation, and enough distance from the wedding chaos to actually breathe.
Melody had relaxed as the night went on, her guard dropping bit by bit until I got to see glimpses of who she really was.
Although she wasn’t telling me a lot about herself. If I tried to ask, she skillfully redirected my questions. But I did discover she was funny. Sharp-witted. And she had this way of calling me out on my bullshit that I found oddly refreshing.
Now we were sitting in my car outside her townhouse in Manhattan. I wasn’t quite ready for the night to end.
“This is me,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks. It’s small, but it’s mine.” She picked up her purse and reached for the door before she paused. “Thank you. For tonight. For everything. I was not looking forward to that wedding. You definitely made it interesting.”
“You’ve thanked me like ten times already.”
“Well, this makes eleven.” She smiled, her entire face lighting up. “Seriously, Austin. You saved me from what could’ve been the worst night of my life.”
“Happy to help.” I was trying to figure out how to phrase what I wanted to say next. “So, I was thinking—”
“Uh oh.”
“What?”
“You’re thinking. That seems dangerous.”
I laughed. “Funny. I was going to say I’d like to see you again.”
Her expression shifted, surprise flickering across her features. “You would?”
“Yeah. I mean, we had fun tonight, didn’t we?”
“We did,” she admitted. “But, Austin, you know this was just for show, right? Just to get through the wedding?”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
She bit her lip, studying me like she was trying to solve a particularly complicated puzzle. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting we grab dinner sometime. Or lunch. Or coffee. Whatever you want.” I kept my tone casual, even though something about her uncertainty made me want to work harder to convince her. “No cameras. No audience. Just us.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Come on, Melody. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You could turn out to be a serial killer.”
“I’m not a serial killer.”
“That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”
“Fair point.” I grinned.
She sighed. “I’ll give you my number, but I don’t expect you to call, okay? You got out of your situation and saved me from mine. I appreciate it.”
I held out my phone. “Give me your number.”
She punched it in and I quickly stored it in my phone.
“Goodnight, Austin.”
I reached out and grabbed her hand before she could climb out. “Can I kiss you again?”
The question surprised her. I could see it in the way her eyes widened, her lips parting slightly. For a second, I thought she’d say yes. Her gaze dropped to my mouth. I could see her debating internally.
Then she smiled, soft and a little teasing. “No.”
I blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Because I want to keep you guessing.” She reached for the door handle. “Good night, Austin.”
And just like that, she was out of the car, walking up the steps to her front door. I watched her unlock the door and slip inside, the lights in her townhouse flickering on moments later.
“Huh,” I said to myself.
I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had turned me down. For anything. It should’ve stung my ego, should’ve made me want to prove something. Instead, I found it kind of hot.
Melody was a mystery. Sweet but sharp. Confident but vulnerable. She didn’t throw herself at me despite knowing exactly who I was and what I could offer. She’d turned down a kiss even though I was pretty sure she wanted it as much as I did. I couldn’t figure her out.
And I fucking loved that.
The car pulled away from the curb. I was already thinking about when I could see her again. My penthouse wasn’t far, but it gave me time to text her.
She thought I wasn’t going to call.
Me: Sleep tight, fake girlfriend.
Read. Tiny bubbles. I waited to see what her response would be.
And then the bubbles disappeared.
“Oh, you’re cold, Miss Melody.”
I laughed and put my phone down.
I was up for the challenge. The car pulled to a stop in front of the hotel where I had been living the last couple of months. I knew I should buy something or at the very least rent, but that felt so permanent.
The doorman opened the car door for me. I thanked the driver and climbed out. I made my way up to the top floor, the quiet hum of the elevator my only companion.
Tonight had started as damage control. A way to get Cash and my father off my back.
I was able to prove I could play by their rules without actually playing by their rules.
But somewhere between that first kiss in the garden and watching Melody disappear into her townhouse, it had become something else. Something I wanted to explore.
Which brought me to the real question: what the hell was I going to do about it?
The elevator opened directly into my penthouse. I shrugged out of my jacket, tossed it over a chair, and headed straight for the bathroom. I needed a shower. A cold one.
I was wound tightly with want. Those kisses had been incredible. The woman could kiss. And the fact she left me hanging only made me want her more.
I stripped down and stepped under the spray, gasping as the cold water hit my overheated skin.
But it didn’t help. Not really. Because all I could think about was the way Melody had felt pressed against me when we danced.
The soft curves of her body. The little sound she’d made when I kissed her the second time.
I braced one hand against the tile wall and wrapped the other around my heavy cock, giving in to the need that had been building all night. This was insane. I barely knew her. But something about Melody had gotten under my skin in a way no one had in years.
I thought about kissing her again. About taking my time with it, learning what made her moan and sigh. About getting her out of that dress and discovering if she was as soft everywhere as she’d felt in my arms. I wanted to hear her say my name, breathy and desperate and completely undone.
My hand slid up and down my shaft faster and faster. My balls were tight and desperate for release. Visions of the night kept flashing through my head in a sultry slideshow. Visions of her.
The release came hard and fast, leaving me breathing heavily against the cold tile.
But it wasn’t enough. I already knew it wouldn’t be enough. Because what I really wanted was the real thing. I finished my shower and toweled off, my mind already spinning with possibilities.
The plan had been simple when I’d first approached her. A little fake thing for a couple hours. No harm, no foul. We would both avoid drama and have a little fun. But now the plan was evolving.
What if Melody wasn’t just my fake girlfriend for one night? What if she agreed to fake it for longer? A few months, maybe. Long enough to get my family completely off my back. Long enough that when we eventually “broke up,” they couldn’t say I hadn’t tried.
And in exchange, I could help her. The Bancroft name carried weight—massive weight. I had access to the best PR teams in the country. Lawyers who could make problems disappear. Connections that could open doors she didn’t even know existed.
I could help her rebuild her reputation, come back from her cancellation stronger than before. It was perfect. Mutually beneficial. Clean.
The fact that I also just really wanted to keep seeing her? That was just a bonus.
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and grabbed my laptop, settling onto the couch in my living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the Manhattan skyline glittering in the darkness, but I barely noticed.
I opened a browser and typed Melody’s name into the search bar. I needed to know what kind of scandal we were dealing with. I knew there was no way it could be anything nearly as bad as what me and my family had been involved in.
The results were immediate and brutal.
Fashion Influencer Melody Stephens Under Fire for Edited Photos
Body Positivity Advocate Accused of Selling Out
Melody Stephens: Fraud or Victim?
I clicked through article after article, watching her scandal unfold through screenshots and social media posts.
The before and after photos were damning.
Someone had leaked pictures from the photoshoot, just another reason to never trust anyone.
Her natural, unedited images next to the heavily retouched campaign shots.
The differences were subtle but unmistakable.
And the comments. Shit, the comments were vicious.
I scrolled through her Instagram, reading through the hate that had flooded her recent posts.
People who’d once supported her were now calling her a liar, a fake, a sell out.
They were dissecting every photo she’d ever posted, accusing her of editing them all.
Questioning everything about her authenticity.
It made my blood boil.
I pulled up the brand’s page, Femme Curve. Luxury plus-size fashion, lots of corporate speak about inclusivity and representation. They’d posted the campaign images yesterday, the same ones that had been edited.
Their comment sections were a warzone too. People demanding accountability. Others defending the brand. Some attacking Melody directly.
I sat back, running a hand through my damp hair. This was fixable. Definitely fixable. But it would take strategy.
First, we’d need to get ahead of the narrative. Put out a statement from Melody’s side clarifying what happened. Maybe even threaten legal action against Femme Curve for breach of contract, assuming there was grounds for it. I would need to get my lawyers to look at her contract.
Second, we’d need to control the press cycle. Get her in front of friendly media outlets. Tell her side of the story. Show that she was as much a victim as anyone else.
Third we would need to shift public perception. If Melody was dating a Bancroft, that made her newsworthy for entirely different reasons. We could redirect the conversation from her scandal to our relationship. Give people something else to focus on.
It was manipulative as hell. But it would work.
I opened a new tab and started researching PR firms. Not the ones my family used. I needed someone independent, someone who wouldn’t report back to Cash or my father. Someone who would work for Melody’s interests, not the Bancroft name.
An hour passed. Then two. I made notes, cross-referenced firms, looked up success stories and client lists. By the time I finally closed my laptop, I had a solid plan forming.
Tomorrow, I would reach out to Melody. Lay it all out for her.
And if she said yes?
Well, then things were about to get very interesting.