Page 9 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

My phone buzzes with a text from Tori:

Any update on Operation Boyfriend? The Glow Cosmetics contract is hanging by a thread.

I sigh as I type back.

Working on it. First official photos today.

Three dots dance as she replies.

Make it good. We need something to counter the "cold-hearted career climber" narrative Cameron created.

As if I need the reminder. In the week since our coffee shop meeting, Max and I have had exactly two public appearances—casual, no photos, just establishing ourselves as a couple in the wild. Today is different. Today is our Instagram debut, carefully orchestrated to seem effortless.

I've chosen Riverside Park at golden hour, when the light turns everything it touches into honey. The location offers versatility: we can capture playful moments by the fountain, romantic ones beneath the weeping willows, and casual strolls along the path. I've arranged a picnic with photogenic food—nothing too messy—and champagne that looks expensive but won't break the bank if we don't actually drink it.

My dress is perfect: a floral midi that suggests "Sunday afternoon with my love" rather than "meticulously planned photo opportunity." I've kept my makeup light—the "no-makeup makeup" that actually requires fourteen products—and styled my hair in tousled waves that took forty minutes to look effortlessly windblown.

Everything is perfect. Except my anxiety, which thrums beneath my skin like an electrical current.

Cameron's video continues to haunt me. "She stages everything," he'd told his audience, eyes wide with mock sincerity. "Our entire relationship was choreographed for her followers. She'd make me retake photos twenty times because my smile wasn't right or the lighting was off. Nothing about Lena Carter is real."

The worst part? He wasn't entirely wrong. I did direct our photoshoots with precision. I did care about lighting and angles and the story each image told. But he'd conveniently omitted how eagerly he'd participated, how he'd leveraged my platform to boost his own career, how he'd suggested half the staged moments himself.

I shake off the thoughts as I spot Max approaching along the path. He's followed my clothing guidelines—navy button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark jeans, brown leather boots that have seen better days but somehow work with his whole vibe. His hair is slightly tamed from its usual mess, but still maintains that careless wave that suggests he just ran his fingers through it rather than bothering with product.

He looks good. Too good. Not polished like Cameron or my usual type, but authentically attractive in a way that makes my heart beat faster than it should for a business arrangement.

"You found it," I call, waving him over to my carefully arranged picnic.

"Wasn't hard. You described the exact willow tree." He approaches with an easy stride, hands in pockets. "I feel like I'm meeting a spy."

"A spy wouldn't have laid out a picnic with color-coordinated napkins."

"An excellent cover." He surveys the spread with raised eyebrows. "This is…elaborate."

"It's all about the aesthetic." I pat the blanket beside me. "Sit. Look comfortable."

He lowers himself with the stiffness of someone being forced to pose for a family portrait. "I'm not great at looking comfortable when someone tells me to look comfortable."

"Just…relax your shoulders. Lean back on your hands." I demonstrate the pose I want. "Like you're completely at ease on this random Tuesday afternoon."

"It's Wednesday."

"Details." I pull out my phone. "Okay, I'm going to take some casual shots of us enjoying this lovely picnic. Just act natural."

"While you point a camera at me."

"Yes."

He sighs but attempts the pose I showed him. The result is disastrous—his smile tight, shoulders hunched, looking about as natural as a mannequin in a department store window.

"Maybe try..." I adjust his arm, feeling the surprising firmness of his bicep beneath my fingers. "And tilt your head a little…no, the other way."

"This feels ridiculous," he mutters.

"It won't look ridiculous. Trust me."

Ten minutes and dozens of rejected photos later, I'm ready to scream. Max looks progressively more uncomfortable with each shot, and the golden hour light is fading.

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