Chapter 13
AUSTIN
After the business of the arrangement was settled, something shifted between us. The tension eased, replaced by something more comfortable. More real, ironically enough. How odd that we had to commit to being fake so we could get real.
I wasn’t going to think too hard on that.
Melody tucked her day planner back into her bag and let out of a sigh of what I hoped was relief.
I wasn’t a total idiot. I saw the flash of sadness or maybe it was disappointment when I first told her my proposal.
She hid it quickly and seemed to be on board, but I did feel like a dick for a few seconds there.
But she seemed cool now. We got the business out of the way. I felt like it made things easier. No expectations.
“So,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Now that we’re officially fake dating, I should probably know more about you than what I can glean from your Instagram.”
“Like what?”
“Like why fashion? Why plus-size advocacy? What made you decide to build your whole career around it? And I don’t mean to sound like an ass, but is that your career? Is that your job?”
She laughed. “It is my job. I think I can call it a career.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Influencer, correct?”
“Yes, that’s one word for it.”
“You obviously have some business sense if you’ve managed to build a career from taking pictures of yourself.”
“It’s a little more than that.”
“Sorry. I’m really not trying to be insulting, but I’m genuinely clueless about that whole world.”
She took a sip of wine. “I get it. People think influencing is just snapping pictures all the time. It’s a little more than that.”
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me more.”
“I was twelve when I realized I’d never see someone who looked like me on the cover of a magazine. At least not a fashion magazine. I’d see plus-size models occasionally in like, Target ads or whatever. But never in Vogue. Never in the campaigns for the brands I loved.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“It is. And for a long time, I internalized that. Thought something was wrong with me. That I needed to change my body to be worthy of beautiful clothes.” She traced the rim of her wine glass with one finger.
“I spent most of my teenage years hating myself. Trying diet after diet. Wearing baggy clothes to hide. It was exhausting.”
“What changed?”
“College, actually. I had a roommate who was into body positivity before it was trendy. She introduced me to plus-size fashion bloggers, showed me that women who looked like me could be stylish and confident and beautiful. It changed my entire perspective.”
“So you became an influencer.”
“Not right away. I started a blog just for fun. Posted outfit photos, talked about where to find clothes that actually fit and flattered. It was just me rambling into the void, basically. But then people started following. Commenting. Telling me I’d helped them.
And I realized I could actually make a difference.
Help women see themselves the way I’d learned to see myself. ”
I leaned forward, genuinely interested. “And your family? What did they think?”
“They were skeptical at first. My dad especially. He wanted me to get a ‘real job’ after college. Something stable with benefits and a 401k. But my mom understood. She’d struggled with her body image her whole life too. She got why this mattered to me.”
“They sound supportive.”
“They are. Now. Once they saw I could actually make a living doing this.” She smiled. “What about you? Why do you need to fake date someone to keep your family happy?”
And there it was. The question I’d been avoiding.
“Because I’m the family disappointment. Have been for years. And they’re finally tired of waiting for me to get my shit together.”
“You don’t strike me as a disappointment.”
“That’s because you don’t know the Bancroft standard. My brothers are all successful in their own right. Running companies, making deals, expanding the empire. Making babies. And then there’s me. The youngest. The one who can’t seem to commit to anything longer than a weekend.”
“Why is that?”
The question was gentle, curious rather than judgmental. She asked it like she actually wanted to understand rather than judge, which made me want to answer honestly.
“I tried,” I said. “To be what they wanted. Did everything I was supposed to do.”
I wasn’t going to get into the details. They didn’t matter and I didn’t want to talk about it.
“Can I ask you something?” Melody said.
“Shoot.”
“Why do you still care? About your trust fund, I mean. You could walk away. Start over somewhere else. Build something that’s actually yours instead of living under your family’s thumb.”
It was a good question. One I’d asked myself more than once.
“Pride, maybe. Stubbornness definitely. Or maybe it’s because despite everything, they’re still my family. My father is a judgmental ass, and Cash needs a serious chill pill, but they’re mine. And some stupid part of me still wants to prove I’m not the complete waste of space they think I am.”
“You’re not a waste of space.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough. You stood up for me at that wedding when you had nothing to gain from it. You’re sitting here listening to me talk about body image and fashion like it actually matters to you.” She held my gaze. “Those aren’t the actions of a waste of space, Austin.”
Wow. When was the last time someone had defended me? Seen something worthwhile in me beyond my last name and bank account?
“You’re going to make me feel things, Melody. That’s dangerous.”
“Good thing we have rules, then.”
“Good thing,” I echoed, but I wasn’t entirely sure the rules were going to be enough.
Dessert arrived. It was some elaborate chocolate thing. Melody took one bite and made a sound that should’ve been illegal.
“Oh my god,” she moaned. “This is obscene.”
“Right? I told you everything here is good.”
“Good doesn’t cover it. This is—” She took another bite, closing her eyes. “This is a religious experience.”
I watched her savor each bite, completely un-self-conscious about her enjoyment. No pretense of eating like a bird to appear dainty. No apologizing for taking seconds. Just pure, genuine pleasure in something delicious.
It was refreshing as hell.
“What?” she asked, catching me staring.
“Nothing. I love that you really commit to things. Food, work, even fake relationships with strangers.”
“Is there any other way to do things?”
“Most people I know do everything halfway. They’re always holding back, keeping their options open, afraid to actually want something.”
“And you? Do you do things halfway?”
“I used to go all in. Then I got burned. Now?” I shrugged. “I’m trying to figure out where I land.”
“I get that. The pressure to be perfect all the time. To never show weakness or want or need. It’s exhausting.”
“It really is.” I realized we were connecting on something deeper than I’d expected. “People see the money, the parties and the lavish lifestyle. They don’t see the weight of it. The expectations.”
She nodded. “Yes, exactly. People see the confidence, the platform, the success. They don’t see the constant scrutiny.
How every outfit, every photo, every word is analyzed and judged.
How one mistake can undo years of work. And they don’t realize that the trolling comments are hurtful. I am still a human.”
“We’re both performing,” I said slowly. “Just different roles.”
“Yeah.” She met my eyes. “It’s nice to talk to someone who understands that. Who gets what it’s like to always be watched.”
“Even if we’re about to make it worse by fake dating each other?”
“Especially then.” She smiled. “At least we’ll be in it together.”
“Let me take you home,” I said.
When she didn’t immediately answer, I shook my head. “I already know where you live and we’re supposed to be dating.”
“Fine. But don’t get weird.”
“Too late,” I said with a wink.
I signaled for the check, and we gathered our things. As we stood to leave, I noticed heads turning again. Phones coming out. The same whispers and stares from earlier.
But this time, Melody didn’t tense up. She took my offered arm with her chin high. We walked out of that restaurant like we owned the place.
Outside, cameras flashed. Actual paparazzi had shown up, tipped off by someone inside probably. I kept my arm around Melody’s waist, guiding her toward my car. She smiled but didn’t answer, playing it perfectly. Let them speculate. Let them wonder. That’s what we wanted.
I opened her door, waited for her to get in, then jogged around to the driver’s side. The cameras kept flashing until I pulled away from the curb.
“Well,” I said. “That was fun.”
“That was terrifying.”
I grinned. “You did great. Very natural.”
“I was internally screaming the entire time.”
“Couldn’t tell.” I merged into traffic, heading toward her neighborhood. “You’re a natural at this.”
“At pretending to date you?”
“At handling the spotlight. You’ve been doing it for years with your platform. This isn’t that different.”
“Except when I control my platform, I control the narrative. This?” She gestured vaguely. “This is chaos.”
“Controlled chaos. The best kind.” I glanced at her. “Besides, you’ll get used to it. Give it a week and paparazzi will just be annoying background noise.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Little bit.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You know what you’re missing, Austin Bancroft?”
“What’s that?”
“Domestic bliss. Normal life. Quiet evenings without cameras. Home-cooked meals. All of that.”
“I have no idea what that looks like,” I admitted.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a normal home-cooked meal.
My family is chaos incarnate. I’m the youngest. Our house was always loud.
The dining table even louder. Not that we all sat down at the same time.
I can’t even imagine what that would have been like. ”
Her face lit up with something like delight. “Oh, I’m definitely going to have to fix that.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely. Consider it part of the arrangement. I’ll teach you what it’s like to have an actual home. Not just a place you sleep.”
“My current place is nice.”
“I’m sure it is. But I bet it doesn’t feel like home.”
She was right. It didn’t. It was a hotel suite. Temporary. Cold despite the expensive furnishings.
“And what does home feel like?” I asked.
“Like you can breathe. Like you don’t have to perform. Like you can just be.” She smiled at me. “I’ll show you. It’ll be fun.”
“You’re offering to domesticate me?”
“I’m offering to show you there’s more to life than fancy restaurants and nightclubs. Not that those things are bad. But you need balance.”
“Is this you already trying to fix me?”
Melody grinned and shook her head. “This is me thinking that even billionaires don’t have it all. And maybe you’re missing something important without even knowing it.”
I pulled up in front of her townhouse, put the car in park, and turned to face her. “Don’t you think that counts as flirting?” I asked softly.
Her cheeks flushed that pretty pink I was starting to really enjoy. “What?”
“Telling me I’m missing something. That you want to show me what home feels like. That you think I need balance.” I leaned slightly closer. “Sounds an awful lot like you care, Melody.”
“I—no.” She fumbled for words, flustered in an adorable way that made me want to push further. “It’s just being friendly. Partners in crime should be friendly.”
“Rule number two says no flirting in private.”
“That’s not what I was doing.” She stopped and bit her lip. “Fine. Maybe it was a little flirty. But it was accidental flirting. That doesn’t count.”
“Sure it doesn’t.”
“Austin—”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.” I sat back, giving her space. “Thank you. For tonight. For agreeing to this insanity.”
“Thank you for the excellent dinner and the public defense of my honor.”
“Anytime, ba—” I caught myself. “Melody.”
She smiled, gathering her bag. “Good catch.”
“I’m learning.”
She opened her door, then paused. “We should probably be seen together regularly if we want to make this believable.”
I nodded. “I’ll text you. We’ll coordinate.”
“Very romantic.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted rules and boundaries. This is me respecting them.”
“I appreciate that.” She hesitated, then leaned back into the car. For a second, I thought she might kiss me. Instead, she just smiled. “Goodnight, Austin.”
“Goodnight, Melody.”
I watched her walk up to her door. Watched her unlock her door and slip inside. Lights flickered on in the windows. Then I pulled away, heading back to my hotel suite.
I thought about Melody’s words. About domestic bliss and home and all the things I’d never really had despite having everything money could buy.
I’d grown up in mansions but never felt at home in them.
I had access to world-class chefs but never had someone cook for me with love.
Well, maybe my mother did, but I didn’t remember. It was so long ago.
What would it be like to have what Melody was describing? To have someone who cooked for you not because they were paid to, but because they wanted to. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I conjured up a vision of Melody in my kitchen, wearing nothing but one of my shirts and an apron, teaching me how to make something simple and delicious. Flour on her nose. Laughter in her eyes. The domesticity of it. The intimacy.
Melody had been right. Even billionaires didn’t have it all.
I had money, freedom, access to almost anything I wanted.
But I didn’t have a home. Didn’t have someone who looked at me and saw past the Bancroft name to the person underneath.
Didn’t have Sunday mornings with coffee and lazy conversation.
Didn’t have someone to come home to who was excited to see me just because they liked me.
I’d been missing all of that without even realizing it.