Page 70 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Be honest," she says simply, returning my card. "No more secrets, no more half-truths. If you want her trust back, you have to earn it with complete transparency."

"Thank you," I say, carefully taking the vase. "For the flowers and the wisdom."

"Let me know how it goes," she calls as I exit the shop. "I'm invested now!"

The subway ride to Lena's building passes in a blur of nervous anticipation. What am I going to say? What if she refuses to see me? What if the flowers are too much, or not enough, or completely miss the mark? By the time I reach her block, I've mentally rehearsed and discarded a dozen different speeches, none of them adequate to express what I need her to understand.

Her building looms before me, sleek and modern and intimidating. The doorman eyes me suspiciously as I approach, flowers clutched in white-knuckled hands, probably looking like every rom-com cliché come to life.

"I'm here to see Lena Carter," I tell him, aiming for confidence and achieving something closer to desperate determination.

"Name?" he asks, reaching for the intercom.

"Max Donovan." I swallow hard. "She might…she might not want to see me."

He gives me a look that suggests this isn't his first rodeo with relationship drama. "That's for Ms. Carter to decide."

As he speaks into the intercom, announcing my presence, my heart hammers against my ribs. What if she refuses to come down? What if she tells the doorman to send me away? The flowers suddenly seem absurd, my entire plan half-baked and doomed to failure.

The doorman listens, nods, then turns back to me. “You can go up.”

Relief and terror war within me. She's willing to see me. Now I just have to find the right words to begin rebuilding what I broke.

I take the elevator up and head to her apartment number. My chest is tight as I knock on her door, but then the door opens, and there she is.

Lena.

Hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, wearing leggings and an oversized sweater—the real her, not the Instagram version. My heart constricts at the sight of her, at the wariness in her eyes when she spots me.

She steps outside, keeping the door propped open behind her—an escape route, a boundary. "Max," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "What are you doing here?"

All my rehearsed speeches evaporate. In their place is only raw, unfiltered truth.

"Fighting for us," I reply simply. "If you'll let me."

Her expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes—surprise, wariness, and beneath it all, a tiny spark I desperately hope is the same thing burning in my chest: love, complicated and bruised, but not extinguished. Not yet.

And in that moment, I know with bone-deep certainty that no matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do to prove myself, I won't stop fighting for Lena Carter. For us. For the real thing that grew from the most artificial of beginnings.

TWENTY-ONE

Lena

When the doormancalled to say Max Donovan was in the lobby, my first instinct was to claim mistaken identity, fake my own death, or possibly just hide in the bathroom until he went away. Instead, I heard myself say “Send him up,” then spent three frantic minutes changing out of my ice-cream-stained sweatshirt into a marginally more dignified oversized sweater. I wasn't trying to impress him, I told myself as I hastily ran a brush through my tangled hair. This was just basic human dignity. The fact that my heart was performing an elaborate gymnastic routine in my chest meant nothing. The fact that I'd spent two weeks systematically eradicating every trace of him from my apartment while simultaneously checking his Instagram hourly was irrelevant. I was over Max Donovan. Completely, thoroughly over him. Which is why, when I opened my door to find him standing there with an unusual bouquet of flowers and that devastating look of hopeful determination on his face, I immediately wanted to either slam the door or throw myself into his arms. I did neither, instead freezing in place like a startled deer caught in emotional headlights.

"Hi," he says, his voice rough around the edges in that way that always made my stomach flip. "These are for you."

The bouquet he extends isn't the predictable dozen red roses I would have expected from a man attempting reconciliation. Instead, it's a thoughtful arrangement of blue and yellow flowers with delicate white blooms I don't recognize, somehow perfectly imperfect in a way that reminds me of us. Damn him.

"Thank you," I say, accepting the flowers without inviting him in. My apartment is my sanctuary, and I'm not ready to have him inside again, disrupting the careful equilibrium I've been trying to establish since our coffee shop goodbye. "They're beautiful."

"Like you," he responds immediately, then winces. "Sorry. That was cheesy. I'm nervous."

"Why are you here, Max?" I ask, trying to maintain emotional distance while battling the traitorous part of me that's cataloging every detail of his appearance—the shadows under his eyes that match my own, the wrinkled shirt that looks like he grabbed the first thing in his closet, the way his hair stands up like he's been running his hands through it compulsively. He looks terrible. Wonderfully, achingly terrible.

"I made a mistake," he says, hands now empty and fidgeting at his sides. "Not just the bet—that was definitely a mistake. But accepting the end of us without fighting for what we had…that was an even bigger one."

Something painful and hopeful unfurls in my chest. "Max?—"

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