Page 82 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Everything okay?" she asks quietly.

"Your dad invited me to bring my guitar next time," I tell her. "I think that's Carter-speak for conditional approval."

Her smile is radiant. "That's practically a formal adoption in this family."

As we say our goodbyes, the differences from my first visit are striking. Diana hugs me briefly, a gesture she didn't offer before. Robert's handshake is firm but now carries a hint of respect. Jess makes me promise to text her about potential bands for their wedding reception, while Brian enthusiastically discusses craft beer options for the rehearsal dinner.

In the car driving home, Lena reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together on the console between us. "You survived Carter family game night. That's practically an Olympic sport."

"Your father is terrifyingly good at trivial pursuit," I observe. "And your mother's Cards Against Humanity selections have scarred me for life."

She laughs, the sound filling the car with warmth. "They liked you. The real you, not the performance version."

"I liked them too." I squeeze her hand gently. "Seeing you with them, how you fit into that family pattern while still being your own person…it's nice."

"They're not always easy, but they're mine." She glances at me, something soft in her expression. "And now, a little bit yours too."

The simple statement catches me off guard with its impact. A little bit yours too. The idea of belonging to Lena's world, not just as her fake-turned-real boyfriend but as someone connected to her family, her history, her future…it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

"I'd like that," I say finally. "Being a little bit part of your family."

"Good." She returns her attention to the road, but her smile remains. "Because I have a feeling they're not letting you go easily. Especially now that Jess has claimed you for the entertainment category."

As we drive through nighttime Brooklyn, the comfortable silence between us feels significant—like we've crossed another threshold together, integrated another piece of our lives, built another layer of foundation for whatever we're becoming.

And for the first time, I allow myself to think beyond our careful "one day at a time" approach, to imagine a future where family dinners and game nights are regular occurrences, where Robert and I discuss music in his study, where Lena and I build something lasting from the strangest of beginnings.

Where I belong, a little bit, to the Carters. And completely, wholly, to Lena.

TWENTY-FIVE

Lena

Three months ago,I hired a bartender to pretend to be my boyfriend because my career was imploding. Today, I'm arranging candles around my apartment, playing his favorite vinyl record, and preparing to tell him—officially, unequivocally—that I love him. The irony isn't lost on me. The woman who built a brand on curated authenticity finally finding the real thing through the most artificial of beginnings. The woman who controlled every aspect of her public image now ready to surrender that control for something messy and unpredictable and infinitely more valuable. My hands tremble slightly as I light the last candle, not from uncertainty but from the weight of the moment. Tonight isn't about performance or content or branding strategy. Tonight is about us—the real us—and the future we're choosing to build together.

The past six weeks since our reconciliation have been a careful rebuilding—trust forming brick by brick, vulnerability rewarded with tenderness, authenticity met with acceptance. We've navigated the strange duality of our circumstances with surprising grace: maintaining our contractual obligations for Luminous Beauty while nurturing something genuine behind closed doors. The "fake engagement, real relationship" dynamic has become our private joke, a shared secret that somehow strengthens rather than undermines what we're building.

But I'm tired of the separation between public and private selves. Tired of presenting one narrative to my followers while living another. The compartmentalization that once felt necessary now feels like the last barrier between us, the final wall I'm ready to tear down.

This morning, I made a decision. After discussing it with Tori (who was surprisingly supportive) and Victoria (who was surprisingly understanding), I drafted a post that will go live tomorrow—a candid explanation of how Max and I met, how what began as a business arrangement evolved into something real, how we've navigated challenges and found our way to authentic connection. Not the full, unvarnished truth—some details remain just for us—but honest enough to bridge the gap between my public persona and private reality.

It's terrifying. It's liberating. It's the most authentic content decision I've ever made.

But first, tonight.Us.The words I've said before in moments of vulnerability but never with the deliberate intention I'm planning now.

I check my reflection one last time—simple black dress, hair loose the way Max prefers it, minimal makeup. The woman looking back at me bears little resemblance to the polished influencer of three months ago. She looks more real. More me.

The doorbell rings precisely at seven. Max is punctual as always, a habit that still surprises me given his otherwise relaxed approach to life. When I open the door, he's standing there with a small bouquet of wildflowers—not an Instagram-worthy arrangement but something he likely picked up from the corner bodega, charmingly imperfect.

"These are for—" he begins, then stops, taking in the candles, the music, the obvious care I've put into creating this moment. His expression shifts from casual to curious. "What's all this?"

"Come in and find out," I reply, accepting the flowers with a kiss that lingers just long enough to promise more.

His eyes track me as I move to put the flowers in water, a flattering awareness that still sends warmth spreading through me. "Am I forgetting an anniversary?" he asks, scanning his memory. "Three months since our first real date? Six months since you ambushed me at my bar with a fake relationship proposal?"

"Nothing like that," I assure him, returning to take his hand. "Just…something I wanted to do. For us."

He allows me to lead him to the couch, which I've cleared of its usual decorative pillows (selected for aesthetic value rather than comfort) and replaced with softer, more inviting ones. The vinyl playing softly is one he introduced me to—a folk-rock album from the 70s that I've grown to love despite its complete absence from any trending music charts.

---