Page 18 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"I've got to go—he's picking me up for dinner. Another perfectly orchestrated casual date." I can hear the smile in her voice. "I'm thinking vulnerable post tonight, something about 'finding someone who appreciates the real me.' The algorithm loves that authenticity bait."

Anger flares hot in my chest.Authenticity bait.That's all this is to her—all I am. Content. A strategy. A way to manipulate her audience into thinking she's genuine.

I step back from the door, my mind racing. I knew this was fake, knew it was a business arrangement, but I'd convinced myself there was some real connection developing beneath the performance. That some of those laughs, those quiet moments, those conversations were genuine. That I was more than a prop in her carefully crafted redemption story.

I was an idiot.

Taking a deep breath, I school my features and knock loudly on the door, as if I've just arrived. "Lena? You in there?"

She appears in the doorway, face lighting up with a smile that now looks painfully artificial. "Max! You're early."

"Traffic was light." My voice sounds stiff even to my own ears.

If she notices, she doesn't show it. "Let me grab my bag and we can go." She slips back into the office, still talking. "I was just wrapping up a call with my manager. Good news on a new partnership."

"Congratulations." The word tastes bitter.

She emerges with a designer purse and her perfect smile. "Ready for dinner? I've been looking forward to this all day."

Has she? Or is it just another performance, another opportunity for "authenticity bait"?

"Sure." I manage a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Lead the way."

As we walk to the elevator, she slips her hand into mine with practiced ease. The gesture that had started to feel natural now feels calculated, choreographed. I resist the urge to pull away, reminding myself that I agreed to this. I'm being paid in free meals and social opportunities. She never pretended it was anything else.

But that doesn't stop it from hurting.

* * *

Dinner is excruciating. We're at a small Italian place that Lena chose because it has "the perfect lighting for evening shots," and I'm struggling to maintain even the appearance of enthusiasm.

"Is everything okay?" she asks after my third one-word response to her questions. "You seem distracted."

"Just tired." I take a sip of wine, avoiding her eyes. "Long shift yesterday."

"We could have rescheduled if you needed to rest." Her brow furrows with what looks like genuine concern, but I now know better than to trust it.

"It's fine." I shrug. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Something flickers across her face—confusion, maybe hurt. Good acting. "Yes, you are. Physically, at least."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've barely looked at me since we sat down." She sets her fork down. "If something's bothering you, just say it."

I consider calling her out, telling her I overheard everything. But what would be the point? This was never real. I knew that from the beginning. It's my own fault for forgetting, for letting myself think there might be something authentic beneath the performance.

"Nothing's bothering me," I lie. "Just not feeling particularly chatty tonight."

She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. We all have off days." She picks up her phone. "Mind if I take a quick photo? The lighting is perfect right now."

Of course. The content never stops. "Go ahead."

She raises her phone, then lowers it without taking a picture. "Actually, never mind. Let's just enjoy dinner."

The gesture would seem considerate if I hadn't heard her earlier conversation. Now it just feels like another manipulation—showing she "respects my boundaries" so I'll be more compliant later.

We finish the meal in uncomfortable silence. When the check comes, I reach for it automatically, but Lena is faster.

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