Page 66 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

His expression crumples slightly before he regains control. "It was never fake for me, Lena. Not after the first few weeks. And the bet—it wasn't what you think."

"Then explain it." I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, needing something to ground me. "Explain how betting on whether or not you'd develop feelings for me isn't exactly what I think it is."

He takes a deep breath. "The night after we met, after you proposed this arrangement, I told Ryan and Drew about it. They didn't believe I could maintain a fake relationship without developing real feelings. Ryan bet me a month's rent that I'd end up falling for you."

"How flattering," I say flatly.

"It was stupid male bravado," he continues, his eyes never leaving mine. "I agreed because it seemed impossible at the time. You were just a stranger with a business proposal. I had no idea who you really were, who we would become together."

"But you kept the bet going even after things changed between us," I point out, the central betrayal still unaddressed. "Even after that night in your apartment during the rainstorm. Even after the charity gala. Even after you told me you loved me."

"I know." His voice is low, heavy with remorse. "I should have told you ages ago. I tried, multiple times, but it never seemed like the right moment. The longer I waited, the harder it became to find the words."

"When exactly did you 'lose' the bet?" I ask, needing to know despite how much the answer might hurt.

His eyes soften with memory. "The night you defended me to your father at that first family dinner. When you laughed about the gravy instead of being angry. That's when I knew I was in trouble."

The timeframe surprises me. So early. Before our first kiss, before any of the complications. Something shifts in my chest, a tiny fracture in the wall I've built.

"Ryan and Drew have been giving me hell about it for months," he continues. "I told them weeks ago that the bet was canceled, that it wasn't fair given how real things had become between us. I was going to tell you everything after the Luminous Beauty event. I swear, Lena, that's what I wanted to talk to you about that night."

I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But the memory of Cameron's manipulations, of discovering I was just content to him, rises like a specter between us.

"Even if all that's true," I say carefully, "you still kept it from me. You let me fall in love with you knowing there was this…this thing hanging over us. This secret that would hurt me if I discovered it."

"I know," he acknowledges, reaching across the table as if to take my hand before thinking better of it. "It was cowardly. I was afraid of losing you, and in trying to avoid that, I caused exactly what I feared most."

The sincerity in his voice, the naked vulnerability in his eyes—it would be so easy to forgive him, to accept his explanation and move forward. But beneath the longing, beneath the part of me that misses him desperately, there's a harder truth: trust, once broken, is nearly impossible for me to rebuild.

"I believe that you care for me," I say finally. "And I believe that you didn't intend to hurt me. But Max, this is exactly what I was afraid of from the beginning—being someone's game, someone's challenge, someone's content. The bet might seem trivial to you, but to me, it's evidence that our foundation was compromised from the start."

"It wasn't compromised," he argues, leaning forward urgently. "The bet was stupid, yes, but it didn't influence how I felt about you. If anything, I fought against my feelings because of it."

"That's not exactly comforting." I set down my cup with careful precision. "The point is, I can't trust that any of it was real. Not completely. And I can't be with someone I don't fully trust."

His face falls, understanding dawning in his eyes. "So that's it? We're done?"

"As a real couple, yes." The words hurt to say, like glass in my throat. "Professionally, we still have obligations to fulfill. The Luminous Beauty contract has nine months remaining."

"And we just…pretend? Go back to faking it?" His laugh is hollow, devoid of humor. "That's ironic."

"We're both adults. We can maintain a professional working relationship." I sound more confident than I feel. "Limited appearances, strictly scheduled, no unnecessary contact."

He stares down at his untouched coffee. "And if I don't want to do that? If it would hurt too much to pretend with you now that I know what's real?"

The question catches me off guard. I hadn't considered that he might refuse, might walk away entirely. The thought of completing the contract without him, of explaining his absence to Victoria and the public, sends a wave of panic through me.

"Then I'd be in breach of contract," I say quietly. "It would damage my career significantly."

"I wouldn't do that to you." He sighs, running a hand through his hair again. "I'll fulfill the contract. For you."

Relief mingles with a strange disappointment. Part of me—the irrational, still-in-love part—wanted him to fight harder, to refuse the professional arrangement, to demand all or nothing.

"Thank you," I say instead, professional mask firmly in place. "Tori will coordinate with you about upcoming appearances."

An awkward silence falls between us, heavy with all that remains unsaid. We've reached the natural conclusion of this conversation, the point where I should gracefully exit according to my script. Instead, I find myself frozen, unable to make the final move that will end this chapter.

Max stands first, gathering his untouched coffee and the paper bag with its symbolic ring. As he turns to leave, his elbow catches my cup, sending coffee spilling across the table and onto my lap.

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