Page 36 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

The terrace airhits my lungs like salvation after the stuffiness of the ballroom. I loosen my bow tie with one finger, watching Lena as she moves to the stone balustrade, her silver dress catching moonlight like she's been dipped in starlight. We're alone out here, the sounds of the gala muffled behind heavy doors, and I'm acutely aware of how dangerous that is after what just happened on the dance floor. Whatever line we've been carefully maintaining these past weeks—the one between performance and reality—is blurring beyond recognition. And the worst part? I'm not sure I want to redraw it.

"Victoria seemed pleased," Lena says, her back still to me, voice carefully neutral. "I think we've secured the contract."

"Mission accomplished, then." I move to stand beside her, careful to leave space between us. The city sprawls before us, a glittering carpet of lights that can't compete with the woman next to me. "You'll get your big sponsorship deal."

"We will," she corrects, finally turning to face me. "It's for both of us. That's what she wants—the couple."

I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Right. The perfect Instagram couple. Authentic and aspirational."

"Max—"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to sabotage your deal." I lean against the balustrade, studying her face in the dim light. "I committed to seeing this through, and I will."

She exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Thank you."

A silence falls between us, not exactly uncomfortable but charged with everything we're not saying. I can still feel the phantom press of her body against mine as we danced, can still smell her perfume—something expensive and floral that somehow manages to smell uniquely like her beneath the designer notes.

"What happened in there?" I finally ask, unable to leave it unaddressed.

"What do you mean?" Her eyes skitter away from mine, focusing on some distant point in the city skyline.

"On the dance floor. That wasn't just a performance."

She fidgets with her bracelet, a nervous gesture I've come to recognize. "We got caught up in the competition. The music, the atmosphere…it was all very conducive to getting into character."

"Character," I repeat, tasting the bitterness of the word. "Right."

"What do you want me to say, Max?" There's a flash of something like vulnerability in her eyes before it's quickly masked. "That I'm confused? That I don't know what's real and what's performance anymore? That would be extremely unprofessional."

"Heaven forbid we be unprofessional," I mutter, running a hand through my hair and likely ruining whatever styling product was holding it in place. "Like that night at my apartment wasn't unprofessional."

She flinches slightly. "I thought we weren't talking about that."

"We're not. We're never talking about anything real, are we? Just sticking to the script."

The hurt that flashes across her face makes me immediately regret my words. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," I sigh, the anger draining as quickly as it came. "Look, I'm not trying to make this harder. I just…I need to understand what we're doing here."

She moves closer, close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the slight smudge of her otherwise perfect lipstick. "We're doing exactly what we agreed to do. Creating a narrative. Playing our parts."

"And when the cameras are off? When there's no audience?" I gesture to the empty terrace around us. "What are we doing then?"

Her lips part, but whatever she's about to say is cut off by the sound of the terrace doors opening. A laughing couple stumbles outside, clearly seeking their own private moment. They spot us and pause awkwardly.

"Sorry," the woman giggles, clearly a few champagnes in. "Didn't realize this spot was taken."

"We were just leaving," Lena says smoothly, her social mask sliding back into place. She turns to me, her smile perfect and utterly false. "Shall we, darling? I think Victoria will be looking for us."

I nod stiffly, offering my arm like the dutiful boyfriend I'm supposed to be. She takes it, her touch light enough that I can barely feel her through the layers of my tuxedo jacket.

We reenter the ballroom, the wall of sound and heat a stark contrast to the calm of the terrace. Victoria is nowhere in sight, but Lena maintains her grip on my arm, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease.

"The south terrace Victoria mentioned is probably this way," she says, leading us down a less populated corridor off the main ballroom.

The hallway is dimly lit, the sounds of the gala fading with each step we take. Ornate sconces cast pools of golden light at regular intervals, lending the space an intimate, almost secretive atmosphere.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" I ask, glancing around at the clearly private area.

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