Page 28 of My Real Love Affair

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 hadbeen 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 andrepresentation. 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.