Chapter 12
MELODY
Itook a bite of the fish. It was, of course, amazing. But I could barely taste it. My mind was stuck on what he had said. Austin Bancroft had just proposed a fake relationship. A business arrangement. He’d laid out all the benefits like he was presenting a merger proposal.
Which, I supposed, he was. And the worst part? The absolutely mortifying, ego-crushing, heart-sinking worst part?
For about thirty seconds there, I had thought this was a real date. I let myself believe he actually wanted to spend time with me. That maybe, just maybe, someone like Austin Bancroft could be genuinely interested in someone like me.
Cleo had been right. Keep your guard up, she said. He’s a player.
I just never expected the game to be this calculated. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I pushed my sea bass around my plate. It was delicious—perfectly cooked, beautifully plated—but it might as well have been cardboard.
He was courting me and playing pretend. The whole thing was an act. A transaction.
God, I was an idiot.
“You okay?” Austin asked. I looked up to find him watching me with concern. “You got quiet.”
“Just thinking,” I managed to say.
“About my proposal?”
“Among other things.”
Like how humiliating this was. Or the fact I had actually gotten butterflies getting ready for tonight. Or that we spent an hour picking out the perfect outfit for a date that wasn’t even real.
But as I sat there wallowing in my embarrassment, another part of my brain—the practical, business-minded part—started to see the logic in his terms.
I was desperate. There was no point in pretending otherwise. My reputation was in tatters, and I had no idea how to fix it. My follower count was already dropping.
I needed help. Real help. The kind of help that came with resources I didn’t have.
And Austin was offering exactly that.
With his last name and the distraction of our “relationship,” I could hide from the worst of the hate while working to rebuild. I could use the Bancroft name as a shield while I figured out my next move. And when we eventually “broke up,” hopefully I’d be in a better position than I was now.
It was strategic. Smart, even.
It just also happened to be completely mortifying.
I couldn’t get a real boyfriend, so I had to fake it.
The humiliation was hard to swallow, but I supposed desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Tell me about the PR team,” I heard myself say.
Austin picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. “Best in the country. They handle crisis management for Fortune 500 companies, celebrities, politicians. They’re discreet, they’re effective, and they’re expensive as hell.”
“And you’d give me access to them?”
“Full access. They’d work directly with you to craft your narrative, plan your comeback strategy, manage your media presence. Whatever you need.”
“And the lawyers?”
“Ready to go after Femme Curve the second you give the word. Breach of contract, unauthorized image manipulation, damage to your professional reputation. We can hit them from multiple angles.”
I took a sip of wine, buying myself time to think. “What about when we break up? Won’t that just create another scandal?”
“Not if we control the narrative from the start. We date for a few months, make it look real, then have an amicable split. ‘We care about each other but want different things.’ That kind of thing. By then, you’ll be back on solid ground. The breakup will be a blip, not a crisis.”
He’d thought this through. Really thought it through. I wasn’t sure if I was flattered or offended.
“And you’re sure this will work?” I asked. “Sure, your family will buy it?”
“Cash will be suspicious, but that doesn’t matter.
My father is the one who makes the final call on my trust fund, and he wants to see me settled in a relationship.
Acting like a proper Bancroft. I don’t have to be married, just not doing what I was.
” Austin’s expression was one of disgust. “This gives him what he wants without me actually having to change who I am.”
There was something bitter in his voice. I saw him differently. This wasn’t just about money or convenience. This was about survival in his own family.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
Austin’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll be your fake girlfriend.” The words felt surreal coming out of my mouth. “But I have conditions. A lot of them.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“I’m serious, Austin. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. With rules. And boundaries. And absolute clarity about what this is and isn’t.”
“Agreed. Whatever you need.”
I pulled my day planner from my bag. The leather-bound organizer went everywhere with me, filled with Cleo’s carefully color-coded schedule and my own notes. I flipped to a blank page and pulled out a pen.
“First, you don’t post anything about us on social media without my approval. Nothing. Not a photo, not a caption, not even a comment.”
I wrote while I talked.
“Done,” he said.
“Second, no flirting or kissing in private. We save that for when people are watching. When we’re alone, this is professional.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Sure about that?”
“Austin.”
“Fine.”
“Third, you can’t call me baby girl. Ever. Under any circumstances.”
“But you get so cute when you’re all pink and pretty.”
“Austin.” I was beginning to sound like his mother.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No baby girl. Even though you like it.”
I glared at him. He grinned back, unrepentant.
“Fourth, you have to comment on my posts to keep up appearances online. But you can only use approved emojis.” I wrote out examples. “Roses, nail polish, sparkles—those are fine. Peaches, fire, water drops—absolutely not.”
“You’re taking away my fun. What about an eggplant?”
“I will cut your balls off.”
He chuckled. “Ouch. No knife emojis either.”
I ignored him and kept writing. “Fifth, you don’t interrupt me during my content creation time. I block out specific hours for styling, photography, planning, and engaging with my audience. That time is sacred. I treat my career like a career, and I expect you to respect that.”
Austin’s expression sobered slightly. “I do respect it. I respect what you’ve built. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. I looked up from my notebook to find him watching me with something that looked almost like admiration.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, then cleared my throat and returned to my list. “Sixth, you have to attend a boyfriend training session with Cleo.”
“A what?”
“Boyfriend training. Cleo will coach you on how to show up at events with me, how to interact with my audience and what kind of content works for my platform. She knows my brand inside and out.”
“Your friend is going to train me. Like a puppy. I am housetrained if that helps.”
I scratched the pen across the page. “No puppy pads.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “This is insane. I love it. What else?”
“Seventh, no overnight stays. We keep our private spaces private.”
“That’s going to look suspicious if we’re supposedly dating.”
“Then we’ll be creative with our scheduling. But I’m not waking up with you in my space or vice versa. That’s too intimate for what this is.”
“I live at a hotel right now, anyway.” He shrugged. “But if I get a penthouse with a hot tub, you sure you don’t want to come over? You. Me. Bathing suits and bubbles.”
The man was insufferable. I was not going to humor him.
“And eighth, this is the most important one, Austin. No lying. To each other, I mean. We can lie to everyone else about what this is, but we have to be honest with each other. About expectations and if something isn’t working.
Complete transparency between us, even if the rest of the world doesn’t get that. ”
The playfulness dropped from his expression entirely. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his dark eyes locked on mine.
“No lying,” he repeated. “I can do that. Can you?”
“That’s why I’m insisting on it.”
We stared at each other across the table, and for a moment, the restaurant faded away.
“Anything else?” he asked in a husky voice.
I reviewed my list one more time, then shook my head. “That covers it. For now.”
“For now? You planning to add more?”
“I reserve the right to amend the agreement as needed.”
“Of course you do.” But he was smiling. “Can I see?”
I handed him the notebook. He read through my list slowly, his lips twitching with amusement.
“You don’t trust easily, do you?”
“Should I? Trust you, I mean?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t have the best track record.” He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “But I’m going to try. For you.”
Then he signed his name at the bottom of the page with a flourish. Austin Bancroft. His signature was bold and confident, just like him.
“There,” he said, handing the notebook back. “Official. Binding. One day you’ll be able to sell that for some serious coin.”
“I’m not selling my day planner.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Part of my charm.”
I couldn’t believe I was agreeing to fake date a man I’d known for less than twenty-four hours. A man who was using me as much as I was using him.
“So,” Austin said, raising his wine glass. “To our arrangement?”
I picked up my glass and clinked it against his. “To our arrangement.”
This was going to be interesting.
And terrifying.
And probably a complete disaster.