Page 7 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"It was implied! How else would we change the narrative about me if not—" She stops abruptly, seeming to catch herself.

"If not what?" I press.

"Nothing." She runs a hand through her hair, a gesture that seems less practiced than her others. "Look, Max, I need this to be visible. That means some social media presence."

Something clicks into place. "Are you some kind of influencer?"

The way she stiffens tells me I've hit the mark.

"I work in digital marketing and lifestyle branding," she says carefully.

I let out a low whistle. "So that's the game. You need a redemption arc for your online persona."

"It's not a game." For the first time, I hear genuine distress beneath her polished exterior. "It's my career. Which is currently imploding, thanks to my ex's video."

"What video?"

She winces. "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"No. God, no." She shakes her head, seeming relieved. "And let's keep it that way for now. It's refreshing to be around someone who doesn't have preconceptions."

I study her, seeing the shadows under her expertly applied makeup, the tension in her shoulders. Whatever happened with this Cameron guy clearly did a number on her. Against my better judgment, I feel a twinge of sympathy.

"Fine. Some social media," I concede. "But I have conditions. No tagging me. No full face shots unless absolutely necessary. And I get approval rights on anything you post that includes me."

Relief washes over her face. "Deal. I can work with that."

"And I'm not downloading TikTok."

"Instagram will suffice." She flips to a new page in her folder. "Now, about our couple behaviors. Public displays of affection are essential for believability."

I take another sip of coffee, bracing myself. "Define 'essential.'"

"Hand-holding at minimum. Arm around waist where appropriate. The occasional kiss on the cheek." She ticks them off clinically, like items on a grocery list. "Nothing excessive, but enough to be convincing."

"And who initiates these PDAs?"

"We both should. Organically." She glances up with a slight frown. "Why?"

"Just establishing parameters. This is a two-way street, remember?"

"Of course." She slides a sheet of paper toward me. "I've drafted a basic timeline for our relationship milestones. First official date tomorrow night, casual brunch with a friend next weekend, and so on."

I scan the paper, equal parts impressed and concerned by her thoroughness. "You've really thought this through."

"Planning is what I do." She hesitates, then adds more quietly, "Control is…comforting."

There's something oddly vulnerable in the admission. I find myself nodding. "I get that."

She looks surprised, as if she expected me to mock her. "You do?"

"Sure. Different contexts, but yeah." I don't elaborate on how controlling every aspect of a musical performance once gave me the same comfort, before it became a prison. "Just don't plan every moment to death. Real relationships have spontaneity."

"This isn't a real relationship."

"No, but it needs to look like one." I tap the timeline. "Leave room for improvisation."

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