Page 3 of My Real Love Affair

“What’s it like being one of the wealthiest bachelors in New York City?” A female voice giggled.

My recorded voice laughed, and I could hear the arrogance dripping from every word. “It’s a joke, sweetheart. The last name doesn’t mean shit to me. I’m just happy to keep spending their money.”

The girl giggled again, and the recording cut off.

Shit. That was definitely my voice, and those were definitely my words, but I had absolutely zero memory of saying them. Which meant I’d been pretty hammered. Again.

Cash leveled me with a dark look that could have frozen hell over. “You drunk dialed one of your flings this morning at four a.m. She’s a reporter.”

The words made my already churning gut churn a whole lot faster. A reporter. Of course it was a fucking reporter.

“It’s going to hit the media,” Cash continued, his voice deadly calm. “And then Dad’s going to hear it. I suggest you make sure he hears it from you first, not from some scandal rag with a catchy headline about the Bancroft family disappointment.”

He walked into the bedroom. I got up and followed him. He stepped on another condom wrapper. It had been a good night.

He muttered under his breath and walked to the closet. I watched as he jerked open the doors and cursed again. He yanked out a clean shirt and pants and tossed them at me. “Shower. You smell like a fucking brothel. Get dressed. We’re going to the estate.”

“Now? It’s not even noon.”

“Now. And Austin?” He turned to face me one more time, and something in his expression made my stomach drop. “After today, you’re getting neutered. Figuratively speaking.”

CHAPTER 2

MELODY

“What about this one?” I asked, stepping out of the fitting room in a flowing royal blue dress that glossed over some of my curves while highlighting the ones I liked to show off. My butt and boobs. Those were good curves. The fabric felt like silk against my skin, and the color made my hazel eyes pop.

Cleo looked up from where she was perched on the velvet settee, her purple hair catching the boutique’s soft lighting. She immediately raised her phone and clicked.

I sighed. “I didn’t tell you to take a picture yet.”

“I wanted to see what it would look like in photos,” she said. “You know how colors change.”

“Can you look with your eyes?”

“Yes.” She continued snapping photos. “Turn slightly to the left. Perfect. Now give me that over-the-shoulder look you do so well.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I struck the pose. This was our routine. Cleo had turned it into an art form. She had an eye for capturing me at my best angles, knowing exactly how to position me so the light hit just right. She and her camera phone knew how to make my curves look like the blessing they were insteadof something to hide. After three years of working together, she could read my body language better than I could.

“The color is incredible on you,” Cleo continued, moving around me to get different shots. “And the way it flows when you move? Your followers are going to die.”

I did a little twirl, watching the skirt billow around my legs. The dress was gorgeous, but something felt off. Too formal, maybe? “I don’t know. Do you think it’s too much for a wedding where I’m just a guest?”

“Babe, you’re never just a guest anywhere. You’re Melody Stephens.” She lowered her phone for a moment, fixing me with that direct stare that brooked no argument. “And Sophie Plume’s wedding is going to be the event of the season. The guest list leaked, remember? Everyone knows you’re going to be there.”

Right. The guest list. Sometimes I forgot how public my life had become. When your every move was documented and discussed by thousands of people online, privacy became a luxury you couldn’t always afford.

“Besides, this is Sophie we’re talking about. Little Miss Perfect herself. You know she’s going to look like she stepped out of a fairytale.”

I sighed, thinking about Sophie Plume, my old friend who’d somehow managed to remain New York’s perpetual “girl next door” despite being worth more than some small countries. Petite, blonde, absolutely stunning, and so charming that even people whoshouldhate her for her privilege couldn’t help but adore her. She was marrying Dr. Gideon Webb, a plastic surgeon who looked like he had stepped off the cover of a romance novel.

“I still can’t believe she’s actually getting married,” I mused, smoothing the dress over my hips. “I remember when we used to talk about our dream weddings during sleepovers. She wanted a princess theme with a castle.”

“Well, she’s getting pretty close,” Cleo said, snapping another photo as I adjusted the neckline. “The Plume family literally built their own wedding venue on their estate grounds. Did you see the pictures in Manhattan Society?“

I had seen the pictures, and they were breathtaking. Rolling lawns, an actual gazebo overlooking a lake, gardens that likely required an entire army of staff to keep up. It was the kind of venue that made every wedding Pinterest board look amateur.

“So many photo opportunities,” I said, half to myself. As much as I genuinely wanted to celebrate Sophie’s happiness, I couldn’t deny that her wedding would be incredible content. My followers loved behind-the-scenes glimpses into high society events, especially when I could share styling tips and fashion insights.