Page 59 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

As the night deepens around us, our conversation drifts to the future—the real one, not the carefully plotted content calendar or campaign schedule.

"What happens when the Luminous Beauty contract ends?" I ask, voicing the question that's been hovering at the edges of my mind. "When we don't have to pretend anymore?"

"Then we stop pretending," he says simply. "We just be together, if that's what we both want."

"And if I still need to maintain a public image for my career?"

He considers this, his fingers still tracing patterns on my skin. "Then we figure it out. Together. But we always keep this—" he gestures to our entwined bodies, the intimate cocoon we've created "—sacred. Just for us."

The promise settles something restless inside me. All my life, especially since building my brand, I've existed in the gaze of others—performing, pleasing, projecting the version of myself most likely to be approved. The thought of having something genuine, something private amid the public performance, feels like taking a full breath after years of shallow breathing.

"I'd like that," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Something just for us."

Later, as we lie in the cabin's small bedroom, drowsiness pulling at the edges of consciousness, Max's arms secure around me, I realize something profound. This quiet, camera-free evening has been more satisfying than any viral post, any successful campaign, any strategically captured moment.

The plastic ring he gave me during our staged proposal sits on my right hand, catching moonlight from the window. Originally a joke, it's become something far more meaningful—a symbol of the real commitment growing beneath the public charade.

"Max?" I murmur, already half-asleep.

"Hmm?" His voice is equally drowsy, his breath warm against my hair.

"Thank you for tonight. For this." I can't quite articulate all I mean—for the privacy, for the honesty, for seeing value in the parts of me I've been trained to hide.

But he seems to understand anyway, pulling me closer as sleep claims us both. "Always, Lena. Always."

In the morning, I know we'll drive back to the city, back to our dual existence of public performance and private truth. There will be campaign events to attend, content to create, expectations to meet. But we'll carry this night with us—this genuine connection that exists outside the frame of carefully composed photos and strategic hashtags.

For now, though, I let myself drift into dreams, secure in the knowledge that what's growing between us is real, camera-ready or not.

SEVENTEEN

Max

The guitar feelsstrange in my hands, unfamiliar after months of neglect. I run my fingers over the strings, producing a discordant jangle that makes me wince. Out of tune, like most things in my life lately. The melody's been stuck in my head for days—a new composition trying to work its way out after years of creative silence. Lena's doing, though she doesn't know it. Since our weekend at the cabin two weeks ago, since she asked me to play for her "sometime," the music that's been dormant inside me has started stirring again. It's terrifying and exhilarating, like most things that involve Lena. I set the guitar aside as my phone chimes with a text from her:

On my way. Bringing takeout and zero photographic evidence of my sweatpants. x

The message makes me smile despite the knot of guilt that's taken up permanent residence in my chest. That guilt has only grown since my conversation with Ryan and Drew, since making the decision to tell Lena about the bet. But the timing never seems right. Every moment I spend with her feels too precious to potentially destroy with a confession that could shatter her trust in me.

Tomorrow. I'll tell her tomorrow, after the Luminous Beauty event. That's the promise I keep making to myself, even as each 'tomorrow' becomes 'the next day' becomes 'soon.'

I quickly tune the guitar and return it to its stand, straightening the already-tidy apartment. It's a habit I've developed since Lena started spending more time here—not because she cares if there are dishes in the sink or books stacked haphazardly, but because somehow her presence makes me want to offer the best version of everything, including my living space.

The buzzer sounds fifteen minutes later. When I open the door, she's exactly as promised—sweatpants, one of my old band t-shirts she's claimed as her own, hair piled in a messy bun, no makeup. She's also juggling two bags of takeout and a bottle of wine, her expression comically strained with the effort.

"A little help here, Donovan," she grunts as the wine bottle starts to slip.

I relieve her of her burden, stealing a quick kiss in the process. "You know, for someone who coordinates outfits with her morning coffee for Instagram, you make surprisingly unsexy entrances in real life."

"Excuse you," she retorts, following me inside. "This is peak comfort chic. The internet would explode if I revealed my true loungewear aesthetic."

"Their loss." I set the food on the coffee table, enjoying the easy way she makes herself at home—kicking off her shoes, grabbing plates from the kitchen like she belongs here. In many ways, she does. Over the past months, she's colonized my space bit by bit—a toothbrush in the bathroom, her preferred tea in the cabinet, a drawer with emergency clothes for unplanned sleepovers.

"Productive day?" she asks, unpacking containers of Thai food that smell amazing.

"Bar inventory. Thrilling stuff." I pour the wine, not mentioning the hour I spent with the guitar before she arrived. "You?"

"Content planning with Tori for post-campaign season." She accepts a glass, curling into the corner of my couch with practiced ease. "We're thinking of pivoting to more 'authentic lifestyle' content. Apparently my engagement numbers have never been higher since I started showing more 'real life' moments."

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