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She flinches as if I've slapped her. "You heard that part too."

"I heard enough."

For a long moment, she simply stares at me, emotions flickering across her face too quickly to read. Then she straightens, composing herself with visible effort.

"I understand why you're upset. That conversation sounded bad without context."

"What possible context would make it better?"

"Tori is my manager, Max. She measures everything in metrics and ROI. That's her job." Lena runs a hand through her hair, messing up her ponytail further. "Yes, I was talking about engagement numbers and partnerships because that's the professional reality of my life. And yes, part of this arrangement was always about changing the narrative after Cameron's video."

"You made that quite clear."

"But that doesn't mean—" She stops, seemingly frustrated with her inability to find the right words. "Look, the numbers are real. The partnerships are real. But that doesn't mean my interactions with you are fake."

I scoff. "Right."

"I'm serious." She reaches across the bar, not quite touching me but close. "Do you think I tell all my fake boyfriends about Mr. Sprinkles? Or bring them to family dinners? Or laugh when they spill gravy all over my favorite dress?"

"I don't know, Lena. How many fake boyfriends have you had?"

"Just you." Her voice softens. "And yes, I posted about the gravy incident because it was good content. But I laughed because it was genuinely funny. I enjoy spending time with you, Max. More than I should, given the temporary nature of our arrangement."

The sincerity in her eyes makes my resolve waver. I want to believe her. But I also wanted to believe there was something real developing between us before, and look where that got me.

"So what do you want from me?" I ask finally. "To pretend I didn't hear you referring to me as a manageable puppy?"

She winces. "That was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say. I was putting on a show for Tori because she's worried I'm getting too invested in this." She takes a deep breath. "The truth is, I like you, Max. As a person. As more than just a strategy. And I think—I hope—you feel something too."

The admission catches me off guard. It's the most unscripted I've ever seen her, the most vulnerable. For a moment, I'm tempted to let my walls down, to admit that yes, there is something there, something that scared me enough to withdraw when I thought it wasn't reciprocated.

But the memory of her calculated tone, the way she talked about me like I was just a tool in her image rehabilitation, still stings too fresh.

"I think we need to stick to the original plan," I say finally. "Keep it professional. Follow the script. Get through the next few weeks."

Disappointment flashes across her face before she masks it. "If that's what you want."

"It's what we agreed to."

She nods slowly. "Okay. Professional it is." She slides off the stool, gathering her purse. "But Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Not everything is a performance. Remember that." She offers a small, sad smile. "I'll text you about the charity event details."

I watch her leave, her shoulders straight despite the defeat in her eyes. The urge to call her back, to apologize, to admit that yes, I do feel something, rises in my throat. But fear holds me in place—fear of being made a fool, of caring for someone who sees me as content rather than a person.

"Smooth," Ryan comments, materializing beside me. "Real smooth."

"Shut up."

"You know, for someone who was so sure he wouldn't catch feelings, you're doing a spectacular job of acting exactly like someone with feelings."

I glare at him. "Shouldn't you be bothering someone else?"

"Probably." He picks up a clean glass, inspecting it unnecessarily. "But watching you sabotage something potentially good is much more entertaining."

"There's nothing to sabotage. It's fake, remember? A business arrangement."