Page 50 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

I noticed one of the women inching her way toward the door. She wanted to make an escape. I didn’t blame her.

“I’m not arm candy,” I continued, planting my fists on my hips. “I have a business degree. I built a massive following for Melody. I have almost a million followers on your brother’s joke account. I have skills that actual companies pay actual money for, and you want me to show up to a party and gaze adoringly at you all evening because you need to impress someone’s grandfather?”

I was on a roll now. Cash was just standing there watching me with that completely unreadable expression. I couldn’t tell if he was angry. Surprised. Or what he was thinking. His expression gave away absolutely nothing. It made me feel simultaneously like I was talking to a wall and like I was being studied by someone paying very close attention.

I was certain he was amused. And that pissed me off.

“Find someone else,” I told him. “There are a thousand doe-eyed, sweet-smiled women in this city who would lose their minds at the chance to go to a gala on your arm. Call one of them. Pay for her dress. Flash her that Bancroft smile. I’m sure there are no less than a hundred women that would love to be on your arm. It’s not me.”

He smiled. Not a polite smile. Not a professional smile. A genuine, amused smile that had me seeing red. My blood pressure spiked immediately. I was certain there was smoke curling out of my ears.

“Are you actually smiling right now?”

“I believe I am.”

“Asshole.”

“I’m not going to insult your intelligence by pretending I don’t find this entertaining,” he said.

“I don’t care if you try and insult me. I don’t care about any opinions you have.”

“Out.” He turned and waved a hand at the team trying to hide. “All of you. Give us a minute.”

“That’s so rude,” I hissed.

“Do you think it’s appropriate to have this conversation in front of them?”

They moved faster than I expected, like scared bunnies making a break for it. The door clicked shut behind them.

Then it was just Cash, me, and approximately four thousand dollars’ worth of cheese and charcuterie on a side table that I was already eyeing. It looked like he was planning a party.

The cheese was a distraction. I forced myself to look at him again.

Cash clasped his hands behind his back and looked at me with the patience of someone who had decided to wait me out.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Say whatever you’ve been holding in.”

“I think I did. I’m leaving. I’m going back to the airport. This was a wasted trip. You really should have told me what your little game was.”

“I brought you here for a reason,” he said. “And it wasn’t to insult you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t take kindly to the assumption that you understand my intentions at first glance.” His voice was calm. “You’re angry because you heard ‘fiancée’ and assumed I was asking you to be decorative. I’m asking you to be the opposite.”

“It’s a gala. I stand next to you. I smile. I make you look stable and charming to a man who’s unimpressed by bachelor billionaires. You’ll remember I’ve seen this one. My best friend already did this. I know the requirements of Bancroft eye candy. It’s all decorative.”

“It’s not decorative. You’re not going to just be standing next to me. You’re going to be working.” He took a step closer. “Walking into that room as my fiancée gives you proximity, credibility, and cover to do what you do better than anyone I’ve ever watched work a room. It’s exposure to the highest degree. As an influencer, shouldn’t you appreciate what I’m trying to offer?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. That cheese looked a lot better than the crow I was being served.

I hated this. I hated that he was articulating something that made sense. He was right. It really sucked that he was right. My little meltdown sounded ridiculous now.

“Think about it,” he said. “Come with me. Not as my prop. As yourself, using my platform to build yours. You’ll be at an event with some of the oldest money in Europe, photographed as Cash Bancroft’s fiancée. What does that do for the brand you’re trying to build?”

I thought about it. I tried not to, but it was the proverbial carrot being dangled in front of me.

The pictures and content I could get in Rome at a black-tie gala on the arm of a Bancroft, as his fiancée. My eyes drifted to the racks of designer dresses. I wouldn’t just get basic pictures. I’d be wearing a dress selected by a professional styling team. And I knew those cases held makeup. The good stuff. They were a legit glam squad.