Page 48 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"That's not why I agreed," he says quietly.

"I know. I think I've always known there was more to it for you." I set the contracts on his coffee table, suddenly needing my hands free. "But I convinced myself it was just a job. That I could compartmentalize. That what happened at your apartment that night, and at the gala, and almost at the grocery store—that it was just…physical attraction. Chemistry. Something we could manage."

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "And now?"

"Now I'm not so sure." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Because when Sophie was trying to tear us down, trying to make what we have seem insignificant, all I could think was 'she's wrong.' What we have—whatever it is—it isn't insignificant. It isn't just for show."

The confession hangs between us, the most honest thing I've said in months. Maybe years. Max's expression softens, the wariness giving way to something warmer, more certain.

"It never was," he says simply. "Not for me."

"Then what is this?" I gesture between us, frustration edging into my voice. "What are we doing, Max? Because I can't keep pretending I don't feel something when we're together, but I also can't risk?—"

"Can't risk what?" he prompts when I fall silent. "Your career? Your heart? What exactly are you so afraid of, Lena?"

The directness of the question cuts through my carefully constructed defenses. "All of it," I admit, the words physically painful to release. "I built my brand on aspirational authenticity, and then Cameron exposed it all as calculated performance. I can't go through that again. I can't be vulnerable publicly and have it thrown back in my face."

Max closes the distance between us, stopping just short of touching me. "I'm not Cameron."

"I know that."

"Do you?" His eyes search mine. "Because you're treating me like I'm just waiting for the opportunity to hurt you. To expose you. To make you regret letting me see the real Lena."

"The real Lena is a mess," I say, hands clenched at my sides to keep from reaching for him. "She's insecure and overthinks everything and is terrified that without the perfect Instagram filter, she's not enough."

"The real Lena," he counters, "is brave and funny and stands up for people she cares about. She argues passionately about ice cream flavors and can't whistle and is afraid of geese. She's not perfect, but she's real. And that's all I've ever wanted."

His words unravel something tight inside me, something that's been coiled around my heart since Cameron's video destroyed my carefully curated image. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink rapidly to contain them.

"I like you, Max," I whisper, the confession both terrifying and liberating. "Not for the camera. Not for the contract. Just…you."

The smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise—slow, then all at once, illuminating everything. "Well, that's convenient," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "Because I happen to like you too, Lena Carter. Quite a lot, actually."

"So what do we do?" I ask, nodding toward the contracts. "About that?"

"We could sign them," he suggests. "But with one amendment."

"What's that?"

"No more pretending." He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. "We do this for real. A real relationship with real feelings. The contract becomes just a piece of paper, not the thing defining us."

"And if it doesn't work out?" The fear rises again, persistent despite everything.

"Then we handle it like adults. Privately first, publicity later if necessary." His hand rises to cup my cheek, and I can't help leaning into his touch. "But I'm not going anywhere, Lena. Not unless you send me away."

The certainty in his voice, the steadiness of his gaze—it undoes me completely. I close the final distance between us, my hands finding his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath my palm.

"I don't want to send you away," I admit. "I want..."

"What?" he prompts softly. "Tell me what you want."

"You," I whisper. "Just you. No cameras, no audience. Just us."

His kiss is different this time—not the desperate heat of the gala hallway or the surprised passion of that first night. This is deliberate, tender, a promise sealed with the gentle pressure of his lips against mine. My arms slide around his neck, drawing him closer, deepening the contact until we're both breathless.

When we part, his forehead rests against mine, his hands spanning my waist. "Just to be clear," he murmurs, "that wasn't for the contract."

A laugh bubbles up, relief and joy mingling. "Good. Because neither was this." I pull him back to me, pouring every unspoken feeling, every moment of confusion and longing and fear, into the kiss.

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