Chapter 18
MELODY
Ihad no business being this excited. Standing in front of my full-length mirror, holding up a third dress option while the first two lay discarded on my bed, I felt like a teenager getting ready for prom.
My heart was doing a fluttery thing it had no right to do. I wasn’t sure why I cared so much about what I looked like. Probably because I wasn’t dressing for pictures. I was dressing for him. I was trying to impress him first.
It was ridiculous. This was a business arrangement.
A performance. It didn’t matter if he thought I was pretty or sexy.
It didn’t matter because it wasn’t like he was truly interested in me.
It was all for show. Pictures to be circulated like trading cards.
Look at the Bancroft playboy with his serious girlfriend. And it was all fake.
But damn, it felt like more than that.
“The navy one,” Cleo said from her perch on my bed, scrolling through her phone while simultaneously playing stylist. “It’s elegant but not trying too hard. And it photographs well, which you know is going to matter.”
“Right. Photos.” I held the navy dress up to myself. “Because Austin Bancroft is definitely going to post about whatever fancy date he’s taking me on.”
“Obviously. That’s literally the point of your arrangement.” She looked up, eyes narrowing. “Why are you so giddy about this? You realize this is all fake, right?”
“I’m not giddy.”
“You’ve changed outfits a million times.”
“Three times. And I’m just—I want to look appropriate for wherever he’s taking me.
” I disappeared behind my changing screen, slipping into the navy dress.
It was one of my favorites for spring. The A-line was probably one of my top-tier style choices.
The dress had a subtle shimmer woven through the fabric.
I emerged from behind the screen. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous. As always.” But her expression was concerned. “Mel, are you sure you’re keeping your head on straight about all this?”
“Completely straight. This is just fun. Playing dress up. Pretending to be the kind of woman who dates billionaires.” I turned back to the mirror, adjusting the neckline. “It’s exciting. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”
“As long as you remember it’s not real.”
“I know it’s not real, Cleo.” But my reflection in the mirror looked unconvinced. “I’m just enjoying the performance. We don’t need to have this conversation before every meet-up with Austin.”
My phone buzzed. A text from Austin.
Austin: 10 minutes out. You ready?
Me: 5 minutes and I will be.
I slipped on the nude pumps. I considered my tennis shoes, but I wanted to up my game a little. And I was not going to think about what that meant.
I held my arms out and did a little turn for Cleao. “Okay. I’m as ready as I’m going to be.”
“Hair down or up?” Cleo asked.
“Down. More romantic.”
“Romantic,” Cleo repeated slowly. “For your fake date.”
“Shut up.”
She laughed but came over to help me with some last-minute adjustments. Fluffed my hair. Straightened my dress. Handed me the bag we picked to go with the dress.
“You look incredible,” she said. “Whoever takes photos of you two tonight is going to lose their minds.”
“Thank you.”
“Be careful, okay? I’m getting really concerned about how into this you’re getting.”
“I will,” I promised.
She pulled me into a quick hug. “Text me. Tell me everything. And remember our code word.”
“Pineapple. Got it.” I walked her to the door. “It’s going to be fine. This is all part of the plan.”
“If you say so.”
I watched her walk away and was about to close my door and go back inside to wait when I saw it. More like heard it. I wasn’t a car girl, but holy shit, the purr of the engine would make anyone look.
A sleek, fire-engine red sports car pulled up to the curb. The kind of car that turned heads and made people pull out their phones. The kind of car that screamed “Bancroft.”
Austin climbed out with a big grin on his face.
Oh god.
He wore black slacks with a baby blue dress shirt and no tie.
The top couple of buttons on his shirt were undone and the sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, giving him that effortlessly sexy look he seemed to achieve without trying.
He looked me up and down and that grin transformed into an appreciative smile that made my knees weak.
“Wow,” he said as I approached. “You look—wow.”
“Articulate as always.”
He opened the passenger door for me, ever the gentleman. “Ready for tonight?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He closed my door and jogged around to the driver’s side, sliding into the leather seat. The engine purred to life, and we pulled away from my townhouse.
I tried not to think about how intimate this felt. Just the two of us in the very small, expensive space. The scent of his cologne mixing with new car smell. His hand on the gear shift, so close to my knee.
“You’re quiet,” he observed as we drove through Manhattan.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Where you’re taking me. What kind of elaborate Bancroft date requires this much secrecy?”
He grinned. “It’s going to be good. Trust me.”
We drove through increasingly wealthy neighborhoods. Past brownstones that cost tens of millions. And then he kept going. The city gave way to tree-lined streets and estates hidden behind iron gates.
“Austin,” I said slowly. “Where exactly are we going?”
“Almost there.”
We turned onto a private road an hour later. My stomach started to knot. Clearly, we weren’t going to a restaurant to be seen and photographed.
We pulled up in front of massive iron gates that slowly opened. Beyond them, I could see a sprawling estate. Manicured lawns. Fountains. A house that was less a house and more a mansion. It was a mansion.
“Austin, where are we?”
He pulled up to the circular driveway and put the car in park. Then he came around and opened my door, offering his hand to help me out.
I took it, my legs feeling slightly unsteady in my heels. I should have worn my tennis shoes. No, scratch that. I was glad I’d worn the heels because wherever we were was definitely heel worthy.
“Welcome to the Bancroft estate,” he said.
My brain short-circuited. “What?”
“We’re here to have dinner with my father and stepmother.” He said it casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on me. “Surprise?”
“You—I—What?” I couldn’t form complete sentences. “Austin, you said we were going on a date!”
“I said I was picking you up at six for dinner.” He had the audacity to look amused. “I never said date.”
“You implied date! Sports car, nice dress, Sunday evening—those are date things!”
“Or family dinner things.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. I had prepared for cameras and playing the role of devoted girlfriend in public. I had not prepared for meeting his father. Armand Bancroft. One of the wealthiest, most powerful men in New York. Possibly the country.
“I’m going to throw up,” I said.
Austin’s amusement faded. “Hey, no. You’re okay. Deep breaths.”
“Deep breaths? Austin, I’m about to have dinner with your father. Your extremely wealthy, extremely intimidating father who you are lying to. Now I’m lying to him!”
“Which is why we need to convince him otherwise.” He took both my hands in his. “Look, I scratched your back with the lawyers, right? Helped you with the Femme Curve situation?”
“Yes, but—”
“Now it’s your turn to help me. Dad thinks I’m just fucking around like I always do. I need to prove I can be in a long-term relationship. That I’m serious about someone.” He squeezed my hands. “And you’re going to help me do that.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to demand he take me home immediately. But he was right. We’d made an agreement. This was part of the deal.
Even if the deal had just become infinitely more terrifying.
“You could have warned me,” I said, my voice small.
“Would you have come if I’d told you?”
“No!”
“Exactly.” He stepped closer. “Melody, you can do this. You’ve faced down internet trolls. You can handle one family dinner.”
“Those people weren’t your father.”
“My father is just a man. A rich, judgmental man, but still just a man.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture surprisingly tender. “And you’re incredible. Smart, successful, beautiful. He’d be lucky to have you as a daughter-in-law.”
The word daughter-in-law made my stomach flip for entirely different reasons.
“This is insane,” I muttered.
“Welcome to life with a Bancroft.” He offered his arm. “Come on. Let’s go face the firing squad.”
I took his arm because I didn’t know what else to do. Let him lead me up the stone steps to the massive front door.
A woman—staff, I assumed—opened it before we could knock. “Austin, your father is expecting you in the dining room.”
“Thank you.”
The inside of the estate was gorgeous, and while I knew I was inside a mansion, it felt homey.
Like people actually lived here. It didn’t feel cold or mausoleum-like.
There were pictures of children that were clearly related to Austin covering nearly every surface.
Framed pictures on the wall and even a collage of what looked like children’s artwork framed and hanging like it was the Mona Lisa.
I gripped Austin’s arm tighter. He covered my hand with his, warm and reassuring. “You’ve got this,” he murmured.
We walked through hallways that seemed to go on forever, finally reaching a formal dining room with a table that could seat twenty people.
At one end sat an older man who could only be Armand Bancroft—silver hair, sharp eyes, the kind of presence that commanded attention without saying a word.
Beside him sat an older woman in her seventies I guessed, elegant and poised.
Armand’s eyes locked onto Austin, then slid to me. I felt evaluated. Judged.
“Dad, Kathy,” Austin said, his voice easy despite the tension I could feel in his arm. “This is Melody. Melody, my father, Armand, and my stepmother, Kathy.”
“It’s lovely to meet you both,” I managed, proud when my voice didn’t shake.
Kathy stood, smiling warmly. “Melody! We’ve heard so much about you. Please, sit.”
Armand didn’t stand. Didn’t smile. Just watched us with those calculating eyes.
Austin pulled out a chair for me, then sat beside me, close enough that our thighs touched under the table. His arm went around the back of my chair, and he leaned in to kiss my cheek.
The gesture should have felt performative. But it felt right. Normal. I leaned into him, because that’s what a girlfriend would do. Not because he felt solid and steady beside me. Not because his cologne made me want to turn my face and nuzzle his neck.
He was hard where I was soft. Muscular and steady. And the way his arm wrapped around me felt way too good.
No. I couldn’t think about that. I needed to stay focused.
He could have anyone. He’d had so many women I’d lost count scrolling through his Instagram. Beautiful, thin, perfect women.
Why would someone like him actually choose someone like me?
This was performance. Nothing more.
“So, Melody,” Kathy said as staff began serving the first course. “Austin tells us you’re a fashion influencer?”
“Yes, ma’am. I focus on plus-size fashion and body positivity.”
“How wonderful! And you’ve built quite a following, I understand.”
“She’s great at it,” Austin cut in, his voice full of pride that almost sounded real. “She’s built her entire platform from nothing. Helps thousands of women feel confident in their bodies.”
Armand made a sound that might have been skeptical. “And how exactly does one make a living from that?”
“Dad.” Austin’s voice had an edge now.
“It’s okay,” I said, placing my hand on Austin’s thigh under the table.
I felt him tense beneath my touch. “I partner with brands, Mr. Bancroft. Create sponsored content, collaborate on campaigns. It’s similar to traditional modeling, just with a different platform and audience.
I earn money from people watching and engaging with the content I post.”
“Hmm.” Armand took a sip of wine, his expression giving nothing away.
The dinner continued with Kathy asking friendly questions and Armand watching us like a hawk. I answered as best I could, trying to play the role of devoted girlfriend while also being authentic.
“Do you have family in the city?” Kathy asked as the main course was served.
“My parents actually split their time between here and Belize,” I said. “They spend winters down there. They fell in love with it a few years ago. They’ll be back in June.”
“How lovely! And siblings?”
“No, I’m an only child.”
Austin’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing gently. I squeezed back, grateful for the anchor.
“And your parents approve of this relationship?” Armand asked, his first direct question to me all evening.
“They haven’t met Austin yet. But they trust my judgment.”
“Do they.” It wasn’t a question.
The rest of dinner was excruciating. Every answer felt like a test. Every glance from Armand felt like judgment. Even Kathy’s kindness felt performative, like she was trying to compensate for her husband’s coldness.
How could two people who were so different be in love? She was all warm and bubbly and he was cold and rigid.
Austin played his part perfectly. His arm stayed around me. He refilled my wine glass. Made jokes that made me laugh despite my nerves.
By the time dessert arrived, I was exhausted from keeping up the performance. I just wanted to get the hell out of there and never look back.
I liked Kathy and I hated lying to her. His father on the other hand, I wasn’t sure what to think about him. It was offensive that he didn’t trust me, but technically, he was correct not to trust me, which took out some of the sting.
Deception like this wasn’t something I was used to. Guilt gnawed at me, and I had to shove it down into a dark corner of my mind. I had to survive the rest of the evening.
I could deal with the emotional fallout later.