Chapter 16
MELODY
The car that pulled up outside my townhouse was not what I expected. I’d assumed Austin would send something practical. An Uber maybe. Or one of those generic town cars that wealthy people used when they didn’t want to drive themselves.
Instead, a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows arrived, and a driver in an actual suit stepped out to open my door.
“Ms. Stephens?” He was probably in his fifties, professional and polished. “Mr. Bancroft sent me to collect you.”
“Oh. Um. Thank you.” I slid into the backseat, which smelled like expensive leather and new car. I tried not to feel completely out of my depth.
The drive to the Morrison Building took twenty minutes through midtown traffic.
I spent the entire time checking and rechecking my outfit in my phone’s camera.
Black blazer over a cream silk blouse, tailored trousers, my most professional heels.
I’d even worn my hair in a sleek low bun instead of my usual loose waves.
If I was going to meet with lawyers that a Bancroft hired, I was damn well going to look like I belonged there. I had a feeling they were the kind of lawyers that costs four-figures an hour.
The Morrison Building was exactly as intimidating as I’d feared. It screamed money. I stepped into the lobby and tried not to gasp at the opulence. I had been in plenty of other fancy buildings, but none compared.
I looked around the lobby and felt like I had stepped into another world. I knew fashion. I knew the men and women coming and going through the lobby were all wearing designer clothes and shoes.
Money.
Success.
Power.
I was surrounded by it.
And then my eyes landed on him. Austin was watching me as he leaned against the reception desk looking like he’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.
He’d dressed up too. Dark gray suit that fit him perfectly, crisp white shirt, navy tie that brought out his eyes.
His hair was slightly less messy than usual.
He looked professional. Powerful. And absolutely devastating.
“Hey,” he said, pushing off the desk and crossing to me with that easy confidence he wore like a second skin. “You made it.”
Oh, to be that confident in your own skin. I was doing okay on self-esteem, but he oozed it.
“I made it,” I said.
His eyes traveled over my outfit with a slow smile spreading over those perfect lips. “You look incredible.”
“It’s just a blazer.”
“It’s not just anything.” He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne. “You look like you’re about to close a multi-million-dollar deal.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Technically yes. But you’re making it look effortless.” He offered his arm. “Ready?”
I took it. “As I’ll ever be.”
He led me to an elevator. I stood stiffly as he pushed the button. We stepped inside with a few other people. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. The worst that could happen was they told me to go kick rocks. That would be that.
But I also knew that facing off against a brand was a risk. I didn’t want to earn the label of being difficult or litigious but my entire career was on the line. I had to fight back.
We stepped out of the elevator and walked past reception.
People didn’t question him. He led me down a hallway lined with offices and into a massive conference room at the end.
And when I say massive, I mean obscenely large.
The table could have seated twenty people.
Two walls were entirely windows, offering stunning view of the city.
Another wall was covered in screens, currently displaying what looked like legal documents.
And seated around the table were approximately seven people in suits.
My stomach dropped. “Austin,” I whispered. “You didn’t mention there would be this many people.”
“Legal team, their legal team, some executives from Femme Curve. Don’t worry.” He squeezed my arm. “I’ve got you.”
A woman at the head of the table stood—late forties, severe black suit, the kind of face that probably made opposing counsel cry. “Mr. Bancroft. And you must be Ms. Stephens. I’m Margaret Piper, counsel for the Bancroft family.”
We went through introductions. Margaret’s team consisted of three other lawyers who all looked sharp enough to cut glass. Then the Femme Curve delegation, which included their CEO, COO, and their legal counsel, two men whose names I immediately forgot.
Austin pulled out a chair for me, then sat beside me. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched. I was grateful I had dressed professionally. Everyone else in the room looked like they belonged. This was all so normal for them.
For me? This was the most intimidating thing I’d ever done.
Margaret started speaking, laying out the situation in crisp legal terminology. Contract review, breach identification, and damages assessment. I tried to follow along, but my brain was spinning.
Then I felt it. Austin’s hand on my thigh under the table. It was oddly reassuring and settled my nerves.
I leaned toward him, keeping my voice low. “There aren’t any cameras here. No onlookers. You can tone it down.”
He turned his head, his lips close enough to my ear that I felt his breath when he spoke. “Who says this is for show?”
My heart kicked against my chest.
He gave my leg a gentle squeeze. “Besides, I’ve missed you. Is that so wrong?”
“Rule number two,” I murmured. “No flirting in private.”
“Is a conference room really private though? There are like ten other people here.”
“Austin,” I warned.
He chuckled then removed his hand. “Fine. But for the record, you look beautiful, and I’m glad you’re here.”
I could still feel where his hand had been. The casual intimacy of the gesture.
Focus, Melody. This is a business meeting.
Margaret was still talking, now directing her attention to Femme Curve’s legal team.
“As you can see from the documentation we provided, there are multiple contract violations. Most notably, unauthorized image manipulation without client approval, which directly violates Section Three, Paragraph Seven of the talent agreement.”
One of Femme Curve’s lawyers cleared his throat. “The contract does include language about final image approval.”
“Final image approval for campaign selection,” Margaret cut him off smoothly. “Not approval for digital alteration of the talent’s physical appearance. Ms. Stephens was never shown the edited images. Never given the opportunity to approve or reject the alterations. That’s a clear breach.”
“We maintain that the editing was industry standard.”
“Industry standard?” Austin’s voice was deceptively casual, but I heard the steel underneath.
“Is it industry standard to edit someone’s body without their knowledge when they’re literally being hired to represent body positivity?
Didn’t you hire her because you wanted to appeal to the audience Miss Stephens caters to? ”
I felt like I was watching a tennis match, my eyes bouncing back and forth between the speakers. All of them were talking about me like I wasn’t sitting in the room.
The CEO shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Bancroft, I think we can all agree this was an unfortunate miscommunication.”
“Miscommunication?” I finally found my voice. “I explicitly stated in my initial meetings with your team that authentic representation was non-negotiable. That I wouldn’t work with brands who edited bodies. Your marketing director took notes. She agreed to my terms.”
The COO jumped in. “Ms. Stephens, we absolutely hear your concerns. And we want to make this right. Which is why we’re prepared to offer you a settlement.” She slid a document across the table. “We think you’ll find this more than fair compensation for any distress caused.”
I picked up the paper. Read the number. My brain turned to complete mush.
It was more money than I’d made in the last two years combined. More money than I’d ever seen in one place. Enough money to invest in my business, hire a full team, and expand in ways I had only dreamed about.
“Well,” Austin said beside me, his tone just a little too sweet. “That’s an interesting offer.”
Thank God. He was going to accept it. We could take the money and be done with this.
“But we’re going to have to decline,” he said.
Wait, what? I turned to stare at him. He wasn’t looking at me. His attention was fixed on the Femme Curve delegation, his expression professionally polite but immovable.
One of the Femme people looked surprised. “Excuse me?”
“We’re not interested in a financial settlement.” Austin leaned back in his chair, completely at ease despite having just turned down more money than most people saw in a lifetime. “Money doesn’t fix the harm done to Ms. Stephens’ reputation and the trust she built with her community.”
Speak for yourself, I thought desperately. That money could open a lot of doors for me.
But I kept my mouth shut. We agreed he would handle the legal side of things. This was him handling it. Maybe this was strategy. Was he angling for more money? That felt greedy.
But damn, just imagine what I could do with more money.
“What are you looking for, then?” they asked.
Austin’s expression didn’t change. “A public apology. A detailed explanation of what happened, posted to all of Femme Curve’s social media platforms and sent as an email to your customer list. Acknowledgment that the images were edited without Ms. Stephens’ knowledge or consent.
And a clear statement that this violated both her contract and the values your brand claims to represent. ”
The room went silent. The other side looked at each other.
The lead lawyer was apparently the one they designated to speak. “That’s—”
“Non-negotiable,” Austin cut him off. “You can pay Melody money, sure. But that doesn’t repair the damage to her reputation.
That doesn’t restore the trust her followers had in her.
What restores that is the truth. And you’re going to tell it.
Money isn’t going to fix her reputation.
And if you’re going to throw around a dollar amount, don’t waste our time with numbers like that. ”
I stayed quiet because clearly it was over my head. Austin seemed to know what he was doing. I let him continue to speak for me. But damn, it felt weird.
My lawyer, rather Austin’s lawyer, slid a piece of paper across the table. “We’ve prepared a draft of what this public statement might look like. As you’ll see, it’s factual and straightforward. No excessive negativity toward your brand, but absolute clarity about what occurred.”
I watched Austin work. He was incredible. Sharp and confident and completely in control. Every word calculated. Every word hit its mark. He was acting like my knight in shining armor.
And it was so sexy.
Femme Curve’s lawyers huddled together, whispering frantically.
Austin leaned toward me, his voice low. “You okay?”
“You just turned down a lot of money.”
“Money isn’t what you need right now. You need your reputation back.” His hand found my thigh again, brief and reassuring. “Trust me.”
And the thing was, I did. Against all logic, against every self-preservation instinct I had, I trusted him.
The huddle broke up. “We’d like to request a quick break to discuss this proposal with our team.”
“Take all the time you need,” Austin said pleasantly. “We’ll be here.”
The Femme Curve delegation filed out, their lawyers looking grim. Our side stepped out as well, leaving Austin and me alone in the massive conference room.
I turned to him. “Why did you turn down the money?”
“Because it was a trap.” He stood, walking to the windows. “They offer you a big payout, you sign an NDA, and nothing changes. Your followers still think you sold out. The story stays the same. You just have more money to cry into, but that money will run out before you know it.”
“That’s a pretty cynical take.”
“It’s accurate.” He turned back to me. “You want your career back? Your community’s trust? That doesn’t come from a check. It comes from the truth.”
“You’re really good at this.”
“At what?”
“Being a Bancroft. The negotiating, the strategy.”
“I’ve been watching my family do business deals my whole life. Guess I picked up a few things.”
“More than a few.”
“They’re going to accept our terms,” Austin said. “They don’t have a choice. Going to court would be worse for them than a public apology.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what I’d do if I were in their position. Cut my losses. Control the narrative as much as possible. Move on.”
The Femme Curve delegation returned, looking resigned and defeated. And when they agreed to all of Austin’s terms, I watched Austin negotiate the final details with total confidence. It was honestly really hot watching him work.
My fake boyfriend was starting to feel a little too real.