Page 62 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

I pull her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead to hide the conflict raging in my eyes. "It's not that," I assure her. "You just…surprised me."

"Good surprised or 'oh god what have I done' surprised?" A hint of her usual humor returns, though I can feel the tension in her body.

"Good surprised," I promise, meaning it despite my inner turmoil. "The best kind."

She relaxes against me, apparently satisfied. "Like I said, no pressure. I just couldn't keep pretending it wasn't true, not when we're here like this."

The irony of her words—her refusal to pretend while I'm doing exactly that—isn't lost on me. I tighten my arms around her, as if I could somehow protect her from the hurt I may cause.

"I feel the same," I whisper into her hair, the admission easier than I expected. "I've been fighting it because of how this all started, but…I'm in love with you too, Lena. The real you."

She makes a small sound against my chest—relief, joy, I'm not sure which—and presses closer. "So where does that leave us? Fake-engaged but really in love?"

"It's very postmodern," I quip, grateful for the slight lightening of the mood.

"Very on-brand for my authentic lifestyle pivot," she agrees with a small laugh.

We lie in comfortable silence, the weight of our declarations settling around us like a blanket. Tomorrow, I promise myself with new resolve. After the Luminous Beauty event. I'll tell her everything—about the bet, about my cowardice in not confessing sooner. She deserves the whole truth, especially now.

For tonight, though, I hold her close, memorizing the feel of her in my arms, the scent of her hair, the rhythm of her breathing as she drifts toward sleep. Whatever happens after my confession, I want to remember this moment—this perfect, honest connection that grew from the most artificial of beginnings.

"Max?" she murmurs, already half-asleep.

"Hmm?"

"Play for me tomorrow?" The request is soft, vulnerable. "That melody you're working on. I want to hear it."

"Okay," I agree, surprising myself with how right it feels. "Tomorrow."

As her breathing deepens into sleep, I stare at the ceiling, cradling the woman I love while preparing to risk losing her. The melody that's been haunting me takes clearer shape in my mind—a song about pretense falling away, about finding truth in unexpected places, about the courage to be seen.

Tomorrow, I'll play it for her. And then I'll tell her everything, whatever the cost.

EIGHTEEN

Lena

The Luminous Beautylaunch party is everything Victoria Ellis promised—glamorous, exclusive, and photographed from every conceivable angle. I stand in a corner of the rooftop venue, champagne flute in hand, watching Max charm a group of beauty editors with his easy smile and self-deprecating humor. My fake fiancé. My real love. The contradiction still gives me vertigo sometimes, especially today, after last night's whispered confessions. I touch the plastic ring hidden in my clutch—my talisman, my private truth amid the public fiction. When he catches my eye across the room and winks, my heart performs an Olympic-level gymnastics routine in my chest. How strange that in this room full of staged moments and strategic networking, the most authentic thing is the feeling blooming between us—the one thing no one else knows is real.

"Lena, darling," Victoria materializes beside me in a cloud of expensive perfume, "the campaign is performing beyond our wildest expectations. Your engagement announcement has driven pre-orders through the roof."

"I'm thrilled to hear that," I say, slipping easily into professional mode. "The 'Forever Luminous' concept really resonates with people."

"It's you and Max who resonate," she corrects, watching him across the room. "Your love story feels authentic in a way that's rare in this industry. That proposal—so genuine, so spontaneous!"

I smile, thinking of the plastic ring and Max's improvised speech. "He surprised me," I say truthfully.

"That's the magic of it." Victoria squeezes my arm. "Now, we need you both for the official unveiling in twenty minutes. The photographer wants some shots of you near the product display first."

As she hurries off to oversee some crisis involving the dessert presentation, I make my way through the crowd toward Max. He extracts himself from the beauty editors with practiced charm, meeting me halfway.

"Having fun?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

"Immense," I deadpan. "Nothing says 'good time' like discussing skin absorption rates with dermatologists while maintaining perfect posture for three hours."

His laugh is quiet but genuine. "You look beautiful, by the way. I meant to tell you earlier, but we got separated in the arrivals chaos."

The compliment warms me despite the many times I've heard it. Tonight I'm dressed in a sleek gown that matches the 'Forever Luminous' campaign colors, my makeup done by the brand's lead artist, my hair styled in elegant waves. I look exactly as the contract stipulates—polished, aspirational, camera-ready. But Max is looking at me the way he did last night when I was makeup-free in sweatpants—like I'm something precious, something real.

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