Page 44 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

He grins, unrepentant. "Something like that. You know, crystals and sage bundles and constant selfie-taking."

"The sage bundles are in my other purse." I take another sip of my drink. "Along with my healing crystals and emergency ring light."

Ryan laughs, seemingly genuine. "I like you better than the last one."

"Last one?"

"Max's ex. She was..." He makes a face. "High maintenance doesn't begin to cover it."

Before I can probe further, another bartender—a woman with a sleeve of tattoos and a septum piercing—calls Ryan away. I'm left pondering this new information. Max has never mentioned an ex, though I suppose it's not surprising he has one. The revelation shouldn't bother me, but something tightens in my chest anyway.

I scan the crowded bar, taking in the diverse mix of people—service industry workers unwinding after shifts, creative types in carefully curated vintage, regular folks just out for a drink. It's worlds away from the carefully filtered environments I usually frequent, where everyone is networking even when pretending not to be. There's an authenticity here that's both refreshing and intimidating.

As I continue my people-watching, my gaze lands on a woman seated at the far end of the bar. She's striking—tall and willowy with a cascade of auburn hair falling over one shoulder, wearing a dress that manages to look both casual and expensive. But it's not her appearance that catches my attention; it's the way she's watching Max. With familiarity. With history. With intent.

Something prickles along my spine. Call it feminine intuition or just good old-fashioned jealousy, but I'd bet my entire skincare collection that I'm looking at the "high maintenance" ex Ryan mentioned.

As if sensing my scrutiny, she glances my way. Our eyes meet briefly before she returns her attention to Max, who's still mixing drinks further down the bar, oblivious to her presence. She slides off her stool with feline grace and begins making her way toward him, navigating the crowd with practiced ease.

Without conscious thought, I find myself moving too, cocktail in hand, drawn by some primal instinct to stake my claim. I reach Max's section of the bar just as she does, sliding in beside him as he finishes serving another customer.

"Max," she purrs, her voice carrying just enough to cut through the ambient noise. "Been a while."

He freezes momentarily, a flicker of something—surprise? discomfort?—crossing his face before he masks it with professional courtesy. "Sophie. Didn't expect to see you here."

"Industry night." She shrugs one elegant shoulder. "Everyone comes eventually."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "What can I get you?"

"You remember." She leans across the bar, invading his space with practiced familiarity. "Or has it been too long?"

I clear my throat pointedly, and Max starts, as if just remembering I'm there. "Sophie, this is Lena. My girlfriend." There's something protective in the way he says it, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of my back. "Lena, this is Sophie. An old friend."

Sophie's eyes sweep over me, a quick assessment that feels like a physical touch. Her smile is razor-sharp. "Girlfriend? That's new."

"Not that new," I counter, instinctively moving closer to Max. "Just past our three-month anniversary, actually."

Her eyebrows rise fractionally. "How lovely. Max never was one for long-term commitments."

"People change," Max says tightly. "When they meet the right person."

The possessive warmth in his voice makes my heart flutter, even knowing it's part of our performance. The lines between real and fake blur a little more with each passing day.

Sophie's smile never wavers, but something cold enters her eyes. "They certainly do." She turns her attention fully to me now. "So, Lena, what do you do that managed to capture our wandering musician's heart?"

"Digital marketing and lifestyle branding," I reply, keeping my tone light despite the clear challenge in her words. "And Max isn't wandering anymore. He's exactly where he wants to be."

"Digital marketing," she repeats with a delicate emphasis that somehow makes my career sound like a euphemism for something unsavory. "How…contemporary."

"It pays the bills," I say with a shrug. "Not all of us can rely on trust funds."

I'm guessing at her financial situation based on the subtle tells of old money—the quality of her simple dress, the understated but expensive watch on her wrist, the particular brand of confidence that comes from never having to worry about basic survival. Judging by the slight narrowing of her eyes, I've hit the mark.

"Max always did have eclectic taste," she muses, trailing a finger along the bar top. "First music, then bartending, now…influencers."

The word drips with condescension. Max tenses beside me, looking ready to intervene, but I place a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. I can handle this.

"I prefer 'content creator,'" I correct with a saccharine smile. "Though labels are so limiting, don't you think? Like 'ex-girlfriend' or 'woman still hanging around her former boyfriend's workplace.'"

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