Page 64 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"You can't," Tori argues, though her voice is gentle. "The contract, the unveiling?—"

"I don't care." The words surprise even me with their vehemence. "I can't stand here playing the happy fiancée when it was all just a bet to him."

"At least talk to him first," she urges. "Get his side before you?—"

"His side?" I laugh, the sound brittle and wrong. "What possible explanation could justify betting on me? It's humiliating, Tori. It's exactly what Cameron did—turning our relationship into content for his own benefit."

She winces at the comparison. "I don't think it's the same?—"

"It's worse," I interrupt, the hurt transforming rapidly into anger, into determination. "Because I actually believed him. I thought what we had was real."

Across the room, I see Max finishing his photo session, scanning the crowd, presumably looking for me. In seconds, he'll head back to where I'm standing. I need to be gone before that happens.

"Tell Victoria I got sick," I instruct Tori, already gathering my clutch. "Food poisoning, migraine, whatever. I can't do this right now."

"Lena, wait?—"

But I'm already moving, years of navigating industry events allowing me to slip through the crowd efficiently, head down, avoiding eye contact. I make it to the elevator just as I hear Max's voice calling my name from across the rooftop.

I don't look back. I can't. If I see his face, I might crumble, might listen to whatever explanation he's prepared. And I can't bear to hear more lies, more performance.

In the blessed solitude of the elevator, I finally let the tears come, silent tracks of mascara down carefully contoured cheeks. By the time I reach the lobby, I've composed myself enough to walk briskly through the hotel, ignoring the curious glances at my evening gown and tear-streaked makeup.

Outside, the cool night air hits my face, grounding me momentarily. I order a rideshare with shaking fingers, watching the minutes tick down until escape arrives. My phone buzzes repeatedly—Max calling, then texting, then calling again. I silence it without reading his messages.

When the car arrives, I slide into the backseat, giving my address in a voice I barely recognize as my own. As we pull away from the curb, I catch a glimpse of Max bursting through the hotel doors, frantically scanning the street. For a heartbeat, our eyes meet through the car window—his panicked, mine hollow with betrayal. Then we turn the corner, and he's gone.

The ride home passes in a blur of city lights and fragmented thoughts. Each memory with Max now requires reexamination through this new, devastating lens. Was he pretending all along? Was every moment we shared tainted by this bet hanging over his head? When exactly did he bet on?

By the time I reach my apartment, grief has hardened into something colder, more familiar—the protective shell I built after Cameron, the one Max had somehow managed to penetrate. Never again, I promise myself as I strip off the designer gown, as I scrub away the professional makeup, as I dismantle the carefully styled persona of "Lena Carter, Luminous Beauty Ambassador."

My phone continues its relentless buzzing—Max, Tori, eventually Victoria, whose professional fury I'll have to deal with eventually. For now, I silence them all, cocooning myself in the quiet of my apartment, which suddenly feels emptier than it has in months.

I find the plastic ring in my clutch, the joke proposal token that had come to mean so much more. For a long moment, I stand frozen, staring at the cheap trinket that symbolized our private truth amid public fiction. Then, with deliberate care, I drop it into the trash.

Some betrayals can't be explained away. Some trust, once broken, can't be repaired. I've built a career on knowing when to cut my losses, when to pivot to the next campaign, the next collaboration. This is no different, I tell myself, ignoring the voice that whispers it's nothing like my professional decisions at all.

Max made a bet about me—and lost, according to his friend. But I'm the one paying the price, left with the wreckage of what I thought was finally something authentic in my carefully curated life.

Tomorrow, I'll deal with the professional fallout, the contract obligations, the public narrative. Tonight, I allow myself this private moment of grief for something that never truly existed—for the Max I thought I knew, for the Lena I was becoming with him, for the future I foolishly believed might be ours.

The plastic ring gleams in the trash can, catching the light one final time before I turn away, closing the door on more than just a relationship.

NINETEEN

Lena

Three daysafter fleeing the Luminous Beauty launch party, I've achieved what my therapist would call "functional compartmentalization" and what normal people call "barely holding it together." On the surface, I'm managing—I've rescheduled campaign photos, smoothed things over with Victoria through a combination of professional groveling and a fabricated food poisoning story, and posted a suitably glowing carousel of product images to compensate for my abrupt departure. What I haven't done is respond to any of Max's twenty-seven text messages, fourteen missed calls, or the increasingly concerned emails from Ryan (of all people) attempting to explain. My hair is a tangle of unwashed waves, my lips a perpetually crooked line of disinterest as I stare at my phone, where Tori's name flashes with yet another call. I know what she's going to say before I answer. I know, eventually, I'll have to face him. I just don't know if I can look into those green eyes and maintain the wall I've rebuilt around my heart.

"You can't avoid him forever," Tori says immediately when I pick up, skipping any greeting. "The contract has nine months left, and Victoria is already asking about the next campaign shoot."

"I'm aware of my professional obligations." My voice comes out clipped, professional—the tone I use with difficult vendors, not with Tori. "I'll handle it."

"By hiding in your apartment eating ice cream straight from the container?" Her accuracy is unsettling. I glance at the half-empty pint of mint chocolate chip beside me. "Very on-brand for your authentic lifestyle pivot, but not exactly a solution."

"I'm not hiding." The defensive lie sounds hollow even to my ears. "I'm processing."

"Process faster," she advises, though her tone softens slightly. "Look, I get it. The bet thing was a dick move. But at least hear what he has to say before you torch everything."

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