The Client
Ava’s POV
The email hit my inbox at 7:03 a.m., subject line: URGENT: Image Rehabilitation – Confidential Client.
I almost deleted it. I get a dozen of those every week—actors caught in club bathrooms, singers with leaked texts, influencers who “accidentally” posted something career-ending. But the sender was Marcus Hale, head of Hale & Associates, the agency that only takes clients who can pay in seven figures and don’t ask questions.
I clicked anyway.
The attached file was a single photo:
Jax Harlan, shirtless on a yacht, arm slung around two models, champagne spilling, caption from some trash site: Jax Harlan’s Latest Party Spiral: Is Hollywood’s Golden Boy Officially Washed?
Below it, a bullet-point list of sins:
DUI rumor (unconfirmed, but viral).
On-set meltdown during his last blockbuster reshoots.
Ex-girlfriend’s TikTok rant calling him “emotionally unavailable and allergic to commitment.”
Upcoming action flick premiering in four months—studio panicking about box office poison.
Then the ask: We need a clean, relatable girlfriend arc. Fast. Discreet. Effective. You’re the best at selling redemption. Meet tomorrow?
I stared at the screen for a full minute. Jax Harlan. The guy whose face launched a thousand thirst tweets. The one tabloids called “Hollywood’s last true bad boy” like it was a compliment. I’d watched him charm his way through red carpets while I fixed messes just like his from behind the scenes.
I typed back before I could talk myself out of it.
Tomorrow. 10 a.m. My office. Bring the contract.
I didn’t know then that saying yes would be the moment my professional judgment quietly betrayed me.
Jax’s POV
I showed up ten minutes late on purpose. Let her wait. Let her think I didn’t care.
The office was all glass and sharp edges, the kind of place that screamed “I control narratives for a living.” Ava Monroe sat behind a desk that probably cost more than my first car, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone like she had better things to do.
She didn’t look up when I walked in.
“You’re late,” she said, voice cool, professional. No nonsense.
“You’re the one who said 10 a.m.,” I shot back, dropping into the chair across from her. “I assumed that meant whenever I felt like it.”
Her eyes finally lifted. Dark brown, sharp enough to cut. She studied me like I was a problem to solve, not a person.
“Jax Harlan,” she said, like she was confirming a delivery. “Bad boy with a heart of... something. Maybe gold-plated. The studio wants you redeemable by premiere night. They think a steady girlfriend will do it.”
I laughed. “They think a girlfriend will fix me? Cute.”
“Not a real one.” She slid a folder across the desk. “A staged one. Six months. Public appearances, hand-holding for the paps, couple selfies, joint interviews. We script it, we sell it, your image rebounds, movie sells, everyone wins.”
I flipped open the folder. Pages of clauses: no real dating others, no scandals, no breaking character. And at the bottom, the proposed “girlfriend”: Ava Monroe.
I looked up. “You?”
She didn’t flinch. “I’m low-profile. No one knows my face. Makes it believable—normal girl tames the wild star. Plus, I know how to spin every photo, every tweet, every awkward moment. You behave, I handle the fallout. We part ways amicably after the premiere. Clean break.”
I leaned back, smirking. “So I have to pretend to date my PR handler? That’s... creative.”
“It’s efficient.” Her tone stayed even, but I caught the tiniest flicker in her eyes. Annoyance? Interest? Hard to tell. “You in or out?”
I studied her. Pretty in that effortless way—dark hair pulled back, minimal makeup, like she didn’t need to try. But there was something guarded there, walls up high. The kind of walls I usually enjoyed climbing.
I closed the folder. “One condition.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You have to make it convincing. No half-assed PDA. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. No stiff red-carpet poses. If you’re my girlfriend, Monroe, you’re going to look like you actually enjoy it.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Within reason. Contract says—”
This was exactly the problem with actors. And exactly why this would work.
“Screw the contract for a second.” I leaned forward. “You want redemption? Fine. But I don’t do fake halfway. You want to fix me? You’re gonna have to get close enough to sell it.”
She held my gaze for a beat too long. Then she extended her hand across the desk.
“Deal.”
I shook it. Her grip was firm. Warm.
And just like that, the game began.
But as I walked out, her voice stopped me at the door.
“One more thing, Jax.”
I turned.
“Don’t fall for your own act.”
I grinned. Easy. Dangerous.
Falling was for people who believed their own headlines.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Famous last words.
