Page 53 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"The best parts never are," I murmur back, holding her close as cameras click around us, capturing a moment that's somehow both completely manufactured and utterly sincere.

"The plastic ring was a nice touch," she says with a small, private smile.

"I thought you'd appreciate the symbolism."

The production team swarms us then, congratulating, directing, positioning us for more photos. Victoria is ecstatic, declaring it "even better than planned" and "authentically quirky." Tori gives me a knowing look and a subtle thumbs up.

Later, after the official photos are taken, after we've played the happy newly-engaged couple for what feels like hours, we finally escape to a car waiting to take us back to her apartment. As the door closes, shutting out the world, Lena collapses against me with a sigh that's half exhaustion, half laughter.

"A vending machine ring," she says, shaking her head. "Where did you even get that?"

"Grocery store. The kind with the little toys in plastic bubbles." I pull her closer, relishing having her to myself again. "I wanted something to make you really laugh. To remind you that even in this completely ridiculous scenario, there's something real between us."

She studies my face in the dim light of the car, her expression softening. "It worked." She holds up her hand, the expensive diamond catching the light. "This is for the campaign, for the photos, for everyone else."

"And the plastic one?" I ask, pulling it from my pocket where I'd stashed it after the official ring was in place.

"That one's just for us." She takes it, slipping it onto her right hand with a smile that reaches her eyes. "A reminder that someday..."

"When I really ask," I finish for her, "there won't be a production team or a content strategy or borrowed jewelry. Just us."

"Just us," she echoes, resting her head on my shoulder as the city passes by outside the window. "I think I'd like that."

"Me too." I press a kiss to her temple, marveling at the strange journey that brought us here—a fake relationship that became real, a staged proposal with genuine promise.

The plastic ring gleams ridiculously on her finger, a private joke, a secret truth in the midst of our public performance. And somehow, in this backward, upside-down relationship we've created, it's the fake ring that feels most real of all.

FIFTEEN

Max

The beerin my hand has gone warm, forgotten as Ryan recounts a story about some bar patron's disastrous attempt to impress a date. Drew laughs at all the right places, but I can barely focus, my mind circling back to the same uncomfortable thought: I'm in love with a woman I made a bet about not falling for. The irony would be hilarious if it didn't make me feel like complete garbage. It's been four days since our staged proposal at Brooklyn Bridge Park—four days of Lena wearing that ridiculous plastic ring on her right hand when we're alone, a private symbol that means more than the borrowed diamond that's setting Instagram on fire. Four days of knowing I need to tell her about the bet before someone else does, while simultaneously finding every excuse not to.

"Earth to Max," Ryan waves a hand in front of my face. "Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Something about a guy, a martini, and a regrettable fire hazard," I reply automatically, though I've processed none of the details.

Ryan narrows his eyes. "That was ten minutes ago. I've moved on to asking whether you're ready to admit defeat."

My stomach knots. "Defeat?"

"The bet," he clarifies, leaning back in his chair with a smugness that makes me want to throw my warm beer at him. "You know, the one where you swore you wouldn't catch feelings for Instagram Girl, and I said you absolutely would?"

Drew winces, clearly reading something in my expression. "Maybe we should drop it, man."

"Drop it? No way." Ryan sits forward, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "This is the sweetest victory. Mr. 'I'm Perfectly Capable of Keeping Things Professional' is thoroughly whipped. The evidence is all over social media."

"It's not like that," I mutter, though it's exactly like that.

"Oh please." Ryan pulls out his phone, scrolling through what I assume is Lena's Instagram. "The proposal photos? That look on your face? Either you deserve an Oscar, or you're in deep, my friend."

My hands are numb from gripping my beer bottle too tightly, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. The bet seemed so harmless three months ago—stupid male bravado between friends. One month's rent if I could fake-date Lena without developing feelings. Playing my guitar at Ryan's birthday party if I failed.

Back then, Lena was just a stranger with a business proposition. I couldn't have imagined how she'd infiltrate my life, how her laughter would become my favorite sound, how the smell of her shampoo on my pillow would make me feel more at home than I have in years. I couldn't have imagined the plastic ring still sitting in her jewelry box, waiting for a future proposal that might be real.

"The bet was a mistake," I say finally, setting down my beer with more force than necessary. "I want to cancel it."

Ryan's eyebrows shoot up. "Cancel it? You can't cancel a bet just because you're losing."

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