Page 1 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

ONE

Lena

My career is circlingthe drain like yesterday's champagne, and there's nothing Instagram-worthy about it. Three million followers watch as I smile through gritted teeth and pretend my ex didn't just torch my reputation with a twelve-minute YouTube confessional. Behind every perfect filter hides a mess, and right now, I'm the queen of disaster—though you'd never know it from my feed.

"Four sponsorships canceled this morning." I stare at my phone, scrolling through the damage report as my manager Tori paces her office. "Four. And Luminous Beauty just emailed—they're 'reevaluating our partnership alignment.' That's corporate-speak for 'you're too toxic to sell our face cream.'"

Tori doesn't look up from her tablet. Her fingers tap-tap-tap across the screen like she's trying to morse code her way out of this nightmare. "The internet has the attention span of a goldfish, Lena. Give them something new to talk about."

"Like what? A mental breakdown? A dramatic haircut? I'm not cutting my hair." I twist a strand around my finger, this hair that's been carefully highlighted and treated and photographed for countless paid partnerships. The thought of losing it all—not the hair, but everything I've built—sends acid creeping up my throat.

Three years of curating the perfect aspirational lifestyle. Three years of sunrise yoga poses that took forty-five minutes to capture, of "casual brunches" that went cold while I adjusted the lighting. Three years of building Lena Carter into a brand that women wanted to be and brands wanted to hire. All evaporated because Cameron decided our breakup needed to be as public as possible.

His video—"The Truth About Dating an Influencer: My Toxic Relationship with Lena Carter"—hit two million views in twenty-four hours. The comments section looks like a crime scene. My DMs are a war zone.

"Listen." Tori sets down her tablet with such deliberate calm that I know what follows will be anything but. "We need to change the narrative. Fast."

"I already posted my response video?—"

"Which came across as defensive and scripted, according to—" she squints at her screen "—approximately seventy-eight percent of the comments."

The truth stings worse than the overpriced serum I promoted last month. "What exactly do you suggest I do? I can't just?—"

"You need a redemption arc." Tori's eyes light up the way they do when she smells commission. "Something that makes you sympathetic, relatable. Something that shows you're moving on in a healthy way."

"I am moving on."

"Your last three posts have subliminal digs at Cameron. The one with the wilted flowers? Not subtle."

"It was a metaphor about growth and?—"

"It was petty, and the internet knows it." Tori circles her desk and sits on the edge, leaning toward me with the intensity of someone about to propose a bank heist. "You need a new relationship."

I bark out a laugh. "Right. Because jumping into another relationship immediately is super healthy."

"Not a real one." She arches a perfectly microbladed eyebrow. "A strategic one."

The room seems to tilt sideways. "You're not serious."

"Deadly serious. A carefully orchestrated romance with someone completely different from Cameron. Someone genuine, down-to-earth. Someone who makes you seem more…human."

"I am human."

"Your Instagram says otherwise. You haven't posted a photo with a visible pore in eighteen months."

I slump back in my chair, feeling the familiar ache in my shoulders from holding them in perfect posture for too long. "So what's the plan? Hire an actor?"

"Too risky. They'd want a contract, there'd be a paper trail. No, you need someone real. Someone unconnected to this world."

"Where am I supposed to find this magical unicorn man who's willing to pretend to date me without any ulterior motives?"

Tori's smile is small and sharp, a paper cut waiting to happen. "You're resourceful. Go to a bar. Find someone charming but anonymous. Someone who won't ask too many questions."

Which is how I find myself sitting at the polished oak bar of The Copper Key six hours later, nursing a drink I've barely touched and wondering if I've finally lost my mind. The place strikes the perfect balance between trendy and undiscovered—dark wood, Edison bulbs, and not a selfie-taker in sight. My kind of people wouldn't be caught dead here, which makes it the perfect hunting ground.

A glass clinks against the bar in front of me, and I look up, startled.

"You've been staring at that same drink for twenty minutes. Either it's fascinating, or it's terrible."

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