Page 80 of My Real Love Affair

Ididn’t leave my townhouse all day. I didn’t dare. My townhouse was in the name of an LLC but that didn’t mean some savvy sleuth couldn’t figure out it was me. I didn’t want my address out there. People were crazy. Influencers walked a fine line. We had to appeal to an audience that believed we were approachable. Normal. But for our own safety, we also had to make sure there was an invisible wall to keep them from getting too close.

I had a few close calls. Once when I had been grocery shopping a man had come on just a little too strong. He followed me around the store and said things that were entirely inappropriate.

Another time I had been at a club and a couple of women had become very aggressive. They claimed I was making it okay for people to be sick and unhealthy.

And now with all the Austin drama, I knew I would have loyal fans that would want to support me in their own way. But there would also be the creepers that wanted to take advantage of the situation.

I couldn’t believe the downhill dive my day had taken.

What had started as a triumphant morning with the Femme Curve apology and the tide of public opinion finally turning in my favor had devolved into a fresh humiliation by noon.

The photos of Austin at that club were everywhere. Not just the one Cleo had shown me, but multiple angles, different moments throughout the night. Austin dancing with the blonde. Austin at the bar with his friend. Austin looking drunk and messy and exactly like the playboy everyone said he was. There was apparently a cat fight between two of the women that were trying to snag the elusive Austin Bancroft.

But it was the comments that really ruined my day.

I made the mistake of looking. I knew better, but I did it anyway. I read what strangers thought about me, us, and the whole situation.

Once a Bancroft, always a Bancroft. She should’ve known.

What did she expect? That he’d actually stay with her?

Poor girl. She really thought she had a chance with him.

She was too much woman for him if you know what I mean.

That last one made me want to throw my phone across the room.

The hashtag #OnceABancroftAlwaysABancroft was trending. People were using it to share their own stories of being disappointed by guys who said pretty things but meant nothing. I had become a cautionary tale.

At least the paparazzi photo account made me smile a little. Someone had anonymously created an Instagram called @AustinBancroftWorstMoments, and it was exactly what it sounded like. I didn’t want to admit to taking great pleasure in scrolling through the many pictures posted on the account. Austin’s most unflattering paparazzi shots had me laughing. Even his bad pictures were good.

Austin mid-sneeze. Austin with his eyes half-closed. Austin with food on his face. Austin looking confused by a parking meter.

It was petty and a little mean, but it also felt like someone was in my corner. Like someone else saw Austin Bancroft as human instead of some untouchable god.

But it didn’t fix anything. It didn’t make the hurt go away. It didn’t change the fact that I’d been stupid enough to catch feelings for a man who was exactly what everyone warned me he’d be.

My phone buzzed. Another notification. Another comment. Another person with an opinion about my life.

I silenced it and buried myself deeper into my couch cushions, wrapped in a blanket despite the warm afternoon. I had tried to work. Really tried. Opened my laptop, pulled up my content calendar, and attempted to plan the week ahead. But every time I tried to focus, I pictured that photo. Austin and that blonde.

Had he kissed her? Taken her home? Woken up with her this morning while I’d been reading Femme Curve’s apology and thinking about how he’d helped me?

My stomach twisted at the thought.

There was a knock at my door around three in the afternoon. Cleo had left a couple hours ago after it became abundantly clear we weren’t going to get much work done. I considered not answering. Considered staying buried in my blanket cocoon and pretending I didn’t exist.

But the knock came again, more insistent.

“Melody!” Cleo’s voice. “I know you’re in there. Open up or I’m using my key.”

I dragged myself off the couch and opened the door.

“What are you doing back?” I asked.

“I brought supplies,” she said and held up the bag she had in one hand and the pizza box in the other.

“Supplies?”