Page 17

Our car arrives, saving me from having to respond. As we slide into the backseat, Lena rests her head lightly against my shoulder, the gesture so casual it seems unconscious.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "For doing this. For being…real with them."

Her gratitude makes my stomach twist with guilt. Because while I was busy charming her family, making her laugh, holding her hand like it belonged in mine, I was also consciously reminding myself of the bet. Of the need to maintain emotional distance.

"Anytime," I reply, and mean it more than I should.

As the car moves through Brooklyn streets, Lena's breathing deepens, her body heavy against mine as she drifts into a light doze. I look down at her, this woman I barely know yet somehow defended to her father as if her reputation mattered to me personally.

My hands feel numb from clenching them too tightly in my lap, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. Because despite my protests to Ryan and Drew, despite my confidence that I could handle this arrangement without complication, I'm starting to worry that I might be in trouble.

Not falling for her—that would be absurd after less than two weeks—but enjoying this pretense more than I should. Finding comfort in the weight of her head on my shoulder. Feeling pride when I made her laugh. Wanting to be the person her family thinks I am.

"Just a job," I whisper to myself as Brooklyn slides past the window. "Just a job."

But as Lena shifts in her sleep, her hand finding mine even in unconsciousness, I'm no longer entirely convinced.

FIVE

Max

Three family dinnersand seven public appearances later, I'm in deeper than I want to admit. The line between fake and real blurs a little more each time Lena's hand finds mine, each time her laugh sounds less practiced and more genuine. It's getting harder to remember this is a business arrangement with an expiration date, especially when her followers comment on our Instagram posts about how "natural" we look together. Ryan texts daily, asking if I'm ready to admit defeat on our bet. I'm not. But I'm not exactly winning either.

Today I'm picking Lena up from her office for the first time. Our usual routine involves meeting at restaurants or parks—neutral territories for our choreographed romance. But she's running late on some project, so I've agreed to meet her at what she calls her "creative workspace" before we head to dinner.

The building is sleek glass and steel, housing various marketing firms and digital media startups. The lobby directory lists "Carter Creative Consulting" on the fourth floor. Even her business name is perfectly alliterative, perfectly branded.

I feel out of place the moment I step off the elevator, my worn leather jacket and jeans a stark contrast to the minimalist white-and-gray decor. A small reception area sits empty—apparently it's after hours for regular staff. A hallway stretches behind it, lined with glass-walled offices and meeting rooms.

"Lena?" I call out, unsure where to go.

No answer. I check my phone—I'm actually fifteen minutes early, a habit ingrained from years of setting up equipment before gigs. Finding myself alone, I take the opportunity to explore this part of Lena's world that I haven't seen before.

The office is exactly what I'd expect from her Instagram aesthetic—clean lines, strategic pops of color, motivational phrases in trendy typography on the walls. Photos of Lena with various products line one hallway—her posing with skincare bottles, workout equipment, a subscription food box. In each image, she looks flawless and completely at ease, the perfect aspirational figure.

I pause at a framed magazine cover featuring her with the headline "Digital Influence: The New Marketing Frontier." There's something surreal about dating—fake dating—someone successful enough to be on magazine covers, someone whose career involves being desired and admired by strangers.

Approaching what appears to be the main office at the end of the hall, I hear Lena's voice, animated in a way I rarely experience in person.

"The numbers are incredible, Tori. Engagement up sixty-three percent since the first post with Max. The sentiment analysis shows a complete reversal from six weeks ago."

I freeze, hand raised to knock. Through the partially open door, I can see Lena pacing, phone pressed to her ear, gesturing with her free hand.

"I know, I know. It's working better than we expected." She laughs, the sound light and triumphant. "The boyfriend strategy was genius. You were completely right."

My stomach drops. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I can't seem to move.

"The gravy boat incident?" She laughs again. "God, that was perfect. Couldn't have staged it better myself. Made me look so relatable, like I'm not afraid to mess up my designer dress. The post got more engagement than anything I've done this year."

I remember that moment—the warmth of her genuine laughter, how it transformed the dinner from awkward to intimate. How it made me feel like I was seeing the real Lena, not the carefully curated version. Finding out it was just another calculated content opportunity stings more than it should.

"No, no, he has no idea how well it's working." Her voice drops slightly. "He thinks we're just doing this to counter Cameron's video, but this is so much bigger. Glow Cosmetics is back on board, and Natural Home just reached out about a potential partnership."

She pauses, listening to whoever Tori is.

"Of course I'll need to keep him around until after the Luminous Beauty event. Having an adoring boyfriend at the gala will seal the comeback narrative." Another pause. "Don't worry, he's completely manageable. A little attention, some hand-holding, he's like a puppy."

Like a puppy.The words hit me like a physical blow.