Page 22 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Keep telling yourself that." He sets down the glass with a definitive click. "But from where I'm standing, the only person being fake right now is you."

He walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the hollow feeling that I might have just made a terrible mistake.

SIX

Lena

Professional.That's what we agreed on after Max overheard my conversation with Tori. No more blurred lines, no more genuine laughter, no more conversations that drift beyond our manufactured storyline. Just two actors playing parts until the contract ends. It shouldn't bother me. This arrangement was my idea, after all. But as I apply another coat of mascara, preparing for our sixth public appearance since "the incident," I can't ignore the hollowness that's settled in my chest. I miss the Max who looked at me like I was more than an Instagram caption. I miss the warmth that had started to feel real.

My phone pings with a text from him:

On my way. Be there in 20.

No emoticon, no warmth. Just information. I type back an equally sterile response:

Perfect. Will meet you in the lobby.

Tori calls as I'm sliding into my heels. "How's Operation Rebuild going? The metrics look good, but I need your gut check."

"Fine." I check my reflection one last time. "We're heading to the gallery opening tonight. Should get good visibility."

"And how's things with Puppy Boy?"

I wince at the nickname. "Don't call him that. And things are fine."

"That doesn't sound convincing."

"He overheard us talking last week." I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted at the thought of another night of pretending. "The puppy comment, specifically."

"Ah." Tori's quiet for a moment. "That explains the cooler vibe in your latest photos."

"We're keeping it professional now. Just following the script until the contract ends."

"Is that what you want?"

The question catches me off guard. "It doesn't matter what I want. It's a business arrangement."

"Lena." Her voice softens, which is rare for Tori. "I've known you for five years. You don't look at business arrangements the way you look at him in those photos."

"It's called acting."

"Not for you, it isn't." She sighs. "Look, I know I'm the one who pushed the fake boyfriend strategy. And it's working beautifully from a brand perspective. But if there's something real developing?—"

"There isn't," I cut her off, more sharply than intended. "Just doing my job."

"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced. "Just remember that the best content comes from authentic connections. If you're both just going through the motions, followers will sense it."

"I'll keep that in mind." I stand, smoothing my dress. "I need to go. He'll be here soon."

"Good luck." She pauses. "And Lena? It's okay if the lines blur sometimes. You're human, despite what Cameron claimed."

I hang up without responding, her words lingering uncomfortably. The problem isn't that I'm worried about lines blurring—it's that they already did, and now Max has redrawn them with brutal clarity. And it hurts more than it should.

* * *

The gallery opening is exactly as tedious as I expected—pretentious art, overpriced champagne, and social climbers pretending to understand abstract expressionism. In the past, Max and I would have shared amused glances at particularly ridiculous comments, our private joke amid the façade. Tonight, he stands beside me like a handsome statue, polite but distant.

"Shall we look at the next room?" I suggest after twenty minutes of stilted small talk with an artist whose medium is deconstructed beehives.

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