Page 47 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"I'm a pragmatist," she shrugs. "If you're going to be contractually obligated to act like a couple for a year anyway, you might as well enjoy the perks of actually being one."

"It's not that simple." I stand, too restless to remain seated. "What if it doesn't work out? What happens to the contract then? My career can't handle another public breakup."

"Ah." Tori nods knowingly. "So it's not about the feelings. It's about the fear."

The observation lands like a physical blow. "I'm being practical," I protest weakly.

"You're being a coward," she counters, but her tone is gentle. "The Lena I know doesn't run from challenges. She faces them head-on. Since when do you let fear make your decisions?"

"Since Cameron publicly humiliated me and nearly destroyed everything I've built," I snap, the hurt still raw despite the months that have passed.

"Max isn't Cameron." She stands, gathering her purse. "From what I've seen, he's nothing like him. But you'll never know for sure if you keep hiding behind this fake relationship nonsense."

"Where are you going?" I ask as she heads for the door.

"To tell Victoria you need one more day with the contracts." She pauses, fixing me with a pointed look. "And you're going to use that time to talk to Max. Actually talk, Lena. Not just perform for an audience."

After she leaves, I stand in the middle of my living room, her words echoing in my mind. The contracts continue to sit on the coffee table, demanding a decision I'm not ready to make alone.

Before I can overthink it, I gather the documents, grab my keys, and head for the door. Tori's right about one thing—this isn't a decision I can make in isolation. Whatever happens next needs to involve Max.

The subway ride to his Brooklyn apartment gives me too much time to second-guess myself. What am I doing? What am I going to say?Hey Max, remember how this was supposed to be fake? Well, surprise, I've developed inconvenient real feelings for you. Want to sign this legally binding contract to pretend to date for another year while we figure out if we actually want to date for real?

It sounds absurd even in my head.

By the time I reach his building, anxiety has my stomach in knots. I buzz his apartment, half-hoping he's not home so I can retreat and regroup.

"Hello?" His voice crackles through the intercom.

"It's me," I say, then clarify, "Lena."

A pause, then the door buzzes open without further comment. The walk up three flights of stairs feels like climbing a mountain, each step bringing me closer to a conversation I don't know how to have.

Max opens his door before I can knock, looking casually rumpled in a faded t-shirt and jeans, his hair still damp from a shower. The sight of him—so at ease, so fundamentally Max—makes my heart stutter in a way that confirms everything I've been trying to deny.

"This is a surprise," he says, stepping back to let me in. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I reply automatically, then correct myself. "Actually, no. Not really."

Concern crosses his features. "What's wrong? Is it about Sophie? Because I swear, I had no idea she'd be there last night?—"

"It's not about Sophie." I hold up the contract folder. "It's about these. The Luminous Beauty deal. Twelve months of..." I gesture vaguely between us.

"Ah." His expression becomes carefully neutral. "Having second thoughts?"

"Not exactly." I pace into his living room, needing movement to dispel some of my nervous energy. "More like…complicated thoughts."

He follows, maintaining a safe distance. "Such as?"

"Such as what happens if we sign these and then everything gets…messy." I turn to face him, clutching the folder like a shield. "Last night, at the bar, when I was saying all those things to Sophie?—"

"You were amazing," he interjects softly.

"I meant them," I blurt out, the confession bursting past my carefully constructed barriers. "That's what terrifies me, Max. I meant every word."

Something shifts in his eyes—hope, wariness, I can't tell which. "Lena?—"

"Let me finish, please." I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "This arrangement between us was supposed to be simple. Professional. A business transaction to help my career recover and give you some…I don't know, free meals and social connections or whatever benefit you saw in it."

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