Page 65 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"There's nothing he can say that will change what happened." I curl deeper into my couch, wrapping the blanket—Max's blanket, stolen from his apartment weeks ago—tighter around my shoulders. "He made a bet about me, Tori. Like I was some challenge to overcome, some game to win or lose."

"According to Ryan's apology email, the bet was made before Max even knew you. Before your arrangement started."

This detail, which Ryan has mentioned repeatedly in his messages, doesn't provide the comfort they seem to think it should. "So he agreed to our fake relationship with a financial incentive already in place. That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, but it should at least complicate your narrative that he was playing you the whole time." Her pragmatic tone reminds me why she's such an effective manager—she never lets emotion cloud the facts. "You don't have to forgive him or take him back. But you do have to talk to him, if only to figure out how you're going to navigate the next nine months professionally."

She's right, and I hate it. The Luminous Beauty contract is too valuable to jeopardize with personal drama, too important to my career rehabilitation after Cameron. And beyond the contract, there's the simple, unavoidable fact that I miss Max with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Which makes me furious at myself, at him, at the whole situation.

"Fine," I concede finally. "I'll meet with him. Strictly professional."

"Strictly professional," Tori agrees, too quickly to be completely sincere. "I'll let him know."

After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the darkened screen of my TV—pale, uncombed, wearing one of Max's old band t-shirts that still smells faintly of him. Pathetic. With a surge of determination, I force myself off the couch. If I'm going to face Max, I'll do it on my terms—composed, controlled, camera-ready even if no cameras will be present.

The transformation takes nearly two hours—a thorough shower, hair carefully styled into loose waves, makeup applied with precision to look effortlessly natural while covering the evidence of sleepless nights. I choose an outfit that strikes the perfect balance between casual and deliberate—high-waisted jeans, a silky camisole, and an oversized blazer that suggests I'm too busy with important things to dwell on heartbreak.

Tori texts the details:

Rainy Day Cafe, 11 AM tomorrow.

Neutral territory—not his bar, not my usual haunts, somewhere we're unlikely to be recognized.

I spend the remainder of the day preparing as if for a difficult negotiation—rehearsing what I'll say, anticipating his arguments, fortifying my resolve against those green eyes and that crooked smile that somehow managed to breach all my defenses.

By the time I arrive at the cafe the next morning, precisely fifteen minutes early to secure tactical advantage, I feel armored and ready. I choose a table in the back corner, positioning myself with my back to the wall, full view of the entrance. The warm, cozy atmosphere with its mismatched furniture and hanging plants feels almost offensive in its cheeriness.

I order a black coffee I don't want just to have something to do with my hands. As I wait, I run through my mental script again: Listen to his explanation. Acknowledge it calmly. Explain that while I understand, trust once broken cannot be rebuilt. Propose a professional solution for completing our contractual obligations. Exit with dignity intact.

Simple. Except nothing about Max Donovan has ever been simple.

He arrives five minutes early, scanning the cafe before his eyes find me. Even prepared, the sight of him hits me with physical force—he looks terrible, in the best possible way. Shadows beneath his eyes, hair more disheveled than artfully messy, wearing the same blue button-down he wore the first night I came to his apartment in the rain. He's carrying something—a small paper bag that he clutches like a lifeline.

Our eyes lock across the room, and for a moment, I forget my script, forget my anger, forget everything except the ache of missing him. Then he moves toward me, and reality reasserts itself. I straighten, face composed into what Tori calls my "brand negotiation expression."

"Hi," he says, awkwardly hovering by the empty chair across from me. "Thanks for agreeing to meet."

"We have professional matters to discuss," I reply, gesturing for him to sit. "The contract doesn't dissolve because of personal complications."

He winces at my clinical tone but takes the seat. "Lena, about the bet?—"

"Let's get coffee first," I interrupt, not ready for that conversation without more preparation. "You look like you need it."

"I haven't been sleeping well," he admits, setting the paper bag on the table between us.

"Professional insomnia or personal?" I can't help the barb, immediately regretting it when pain flashes across his face.

"Both." He runs a hand through his hair—that nervous gesture I once found endearing. "I'll get coffee."

While he's at the counter, I eye the paper bag with suspicion. A peace offering? An attempt at emotional manipulation? When he returns with his coffee, I nod toward it. "What's in the bag?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." He pushes it slightly toward me. "Open it if you want."

Curiosity overrides caution. I pull the bag closer, peering inside to find a small, familiar plastic toy ring—identical to the one he gave me during our staged proposal, the one I threw away the night I discovered the bet.

"I found it at the same grocery store," he explains, watching my face carefully. "Same vending machine."

"Why would I want this?" I ask, pushing the bag back toward him. "A reminder of a fake proposal during a relationship that was apparently influenced by a bet?"

---