Page 19 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Please," she says, "let me. You paid last time."

Because that's what a real boyfriend would do. Keep the illusion intact. "Fine."

Outside, the spring evening is surprisingly cool. Lena shivers slightly in her light jacket, and two weeks ago I would have put my arm around her without thinking. Tonight, I keep my hands in my pockets.

"Do you want to grab a drink somewhere?" she asks, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "There's a nice bar just around the corner."

"Actually, I should head home. Early shift tomorrow."

"Oh." She blinks, clearly not expecting this deviation from our usual script. "Sure. That's…fine."

An awkward silence falls. We stand on the sidewalk, two people who have held hands, shared meals, kissed for cameras, yet suddenly feel like strangers.

"I'll get you a cab," I finally say, stepping toward the curb.

"Don't bother." She pulls out her phone. "I'll order a car."

"Suit yourself."

She looks up sharply. "What is going on with you tonight? Did I do something wrong?"

Yes. No. I don't even know anymore. "Nothing's going on. Like I said, I'm tired."

"This isn't tired, Max. This is cold. This is distant." She steps closer, searching my face. "If you want out of our arrangement, just say so. Don't shut down on me."

For a moment, I'm tempted. End it now, walk away before I get in any deeper. But if I do that, Ryan wins the bet. And more importantly, I'd have to admit that this fake relationship affected me enough to make me walk away. That she affected me.

"I don't want out," I say finally. "It's just been a long day. I'll be fine tomorrow."

Relief crosses her face, quickly masked. "Good. Because I need you at the charity event next weekend. It's important."

Of course. The event. The partnerships. The content. Never about me, always about what I can do for her image.

"I'll be there," I promise flatly. "The perfect boyfriend."

Her car arrives, saving me from having to maintain the façade any longer. She hesitates, then leans in to kiss my cheek—a gesture we've performed dozens of times for her Instagram story.

"Get some rest," she says softly. "I'll text you tomorrow."

I watch her car pull away, the hollow feeling in my chest expanding. The worst part isn't that she's using me—I agreed to that from the beginning. It's that I let myself forget it was all an act. Let myself believe some of those smiles, those touches, those quiet conversations might be real.

The walk home is long and cold, my thoughts circling like vultures. By the time I reach my apartment, I've constructed steel walls around whatever foolish emotions had started to develop. This is business. Nothing more. And I've got three more weeks to get through before I can put Lena Carter and her perfect manufactured life behind me.

* * *

The next day at work, I'm on autopilot. Mixing drinks, making small talk, going through the motions while my mind replays Lena's words over and over.He's completely manageable. A little attention, some hand-holding, he's like a puppy.

"Earth to Max." Ryan waves a hand in front of my face. "You just put tonic in an Old Fashioned."

I curse, dumping the ruined drink. "Sorry. Distracted."

"Clearly." He leans against the bar, eyeing me suspiciously. "Girlfriend troubles?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Right. The arrangement." He rolls his eyes. "Which is going so well you're destroying perfectly good bourbon."

I start the drink over, carefully measuring ingredients. "It's fine. Just overheard something I wasn't supposed to hear."

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