Page 52 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

I dress in the outfit selected by the Luminous Beauty stylist—dark jeans, crisp white shirt, navy blazer that's casual enough to seem authentic but polished enough for campaign photos. The ring—a cushion-cut diamond in a platinum setting—sits heavy in my pocket, on loan from a jeweler who's partnering with the campaign.

But there's another package tucked in my other pocket, something that wasn't in any of the planning meetings.

When I arrive at the park, it's immediately clear this is no intimate moment. A small army of production staff mill about, trying to look inconspicuous among the regular park-goers. Tori spots me and hurries over, clipboard in hand.

"There you are! Lena's in position by the waterfront. The photographers are set up, the videographer is ready, and we have a small crowd of 'random bystanders' who are actually influencers ready to capture the moment for their platforms."

"Of course we do," I mutter.

"This is going to be perfect," she assures me, oblivious to my discomfort. "Just follow the plan, hit your mark, and make it look natural."

"Natural. With two dozen people watching and recording. Got it."

She squeezes my arm. "You've got this.”

Before I can respond, she's ushering me toward the designated proposal spot. And then I see Lena, standing by the railing overlooking the East River, the Manhattan skyline a perfect backdrop behind her. She's wearing a flowing sundress in a pale blue that catches the late afternoon light, her hair styled in loose waves that move gently in the breeze. Even knowing she's been positioned there, even aware of the cameras, I'm struck by how beautiful she is—and how nervous she looks when she spots me.

Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation fades. Yes, this proposal is staged. Yes, there are cameras and production assistants and a social media strategy. But the woman waiting for me is real. What I feel for her is real. And somehow, I'm going to make this moment real too, despite everything.

I approach her with measured steps, conscious of the cameras but focusing solely on her face, on the way her eyes soften when they meet mine.

"Hi," she says softly when I reach her. "Ready for your big performance?"

"Something like that." I take her hands in mine, stepping close enough that our conversation can be private despite the audience. "I'm going off-script a bit."

Alarm flickers across her face. "Max, we rehearsed this. The photographers are set up for?—"

"Trust me," I interrupt gently. "Just go with it."

Before she can protest further, I drop to one knee, right on the mark the director indicated. So far, so conventional. Lena composes her features into expectant joy, camera-ready but with a question in her eyes.

"Lena Carter," I begin, loud enough for the microphones to catch. "These past months have been unexpected, to say the least."

A small, genuine smile touches her lips at the understatement.

"When you walked into my bar that night, I had no idea how completely you would change my life." This part is true, at least. "You've challenged me, surprised me, and made me see the world differently."

I reach into my pocket, but instead of pulling out the luxury jewelry box with the borrowed ring, I extract a small plastic vending machine capsule. Confusion crosses Lena's face as I hold it up.

"Before I ask the big question, I have a smaller one," I continue, opening the capsule to reveal a cheap plastic ring with a comically large fake gem. "Will you promise never to make me retake our proposal photos because the lighting isn't perfect?"

A burst of laughter escapes her—real, unfiltered, caught completely off-guard. "What are you doing?" she whispers, eyes dancing with mingled amusement and confusion.

"Improvising," I whisper back, before raising my voice again. "Will you vow to occasionally eat ice cream directly from the container without staging it for Instagram?"

Her laughter grows, tears of mirth gathering in her eyes. "Max..."

"Will you solemnly swear to continue hiding behind me when we encounter geese in the park, even though it ruins your dignified image?"

Now she's truly laughing, one hand covering her mouth, the other still held in mine. Around us, I can sense the confusion of the production team, the photographers rapidly adjusting to capture this unexpected moment.

"And finally," I say, setting aside the joke ring and pulling out the official one, speaking low enough that only she can hear, "will you agree to pretend to agree to marry me, while actually considering the possibility that someday, when there are no cameras or contracts or content strategies, you might want to do it for real?"

The laughter fades from her face, replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable. She understands what I'm really asking—acknowledging the performance while offering a glimpse of genuine intention, a promise for the future.

"Yes," she says, loud enough for the microphones but soft enough to feel intimate. "To all of it."

I slide the ring onto her finger, then stand and pull her into my arms. The kiss is careful, conscious of our audience, but there's real emotion behind it. When we part, she whispers against my ear, "That wasn't in the script."

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