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"Lead the way." Max places his hand at the small of my back as we walk—a gesture that used to feel natural but now seems calculated, a performance for onlookers.

In the next gallery, a photographer I know spots us and waves enthusiastically.

"Lena! I didn't know you'd be here tonight." She air-kisses both my cheeks. "And this must be the boyfriend I've been seeing all over Instagram."

"Max Donovan." He offers his hand with a practiced smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Charming," she says, giving me an approving look. "Much better than the last one. I never liked Cameron—something artificial about him."

The irony nearly makes me laugh. If only she knew how artificial this relationship is.

"Max is definitely more authentic," I say, slipping my arm through his. "That's what attracted me to him initially."

His muscles tense under my touch, but his smile never falters. "Lena values genuineness."

There's an edge to his voice that only I would catch, a subtle dig that makes me want to both slap him and pull him into a private corner to hash this out properly.

The photographer snaps a candid photo of us with her phone. "You two are adorable. Mind if I share this? I'm doing a piece on the gallery for Style Weekly."

"Of course not," I say automatically. More visibility is always good for the brand, even if the relationship behind it is currently held together with tape and good acting.

After she moves on, Max leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "The irony is impressive."

"What is?"

"You valuing authenticity." His voice is low, meant only for me. "Expert-level method acting."

A sharp retort rises to my lips, but I swallow it. This isn't the place. "Just playing my part," I whisper back. "Like we agreed."

His eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering there before the mask slides back into place. "You're very good at it."

"So are you."

For a moment, I see a flash of the real Max—the wry humor, the perceptiveness that first drew me to him. Then it's gone, replaced by the polished performance of Boyfriend Max, who guides me through the gallery with practiced attention.

By the time we've made the necessary rounds, my face aches from maintaining my camera-ready smile. The strain of performing without the undercurrent of genuine connection is exhausting in a way I hadn't anticipated.

"I think we've made enough of an appearance," I say quietly as we circle back to the entrance. "I got several good photos, and the Style Weekly mention should help with visibility."

"Great." Max checks his watch. "I should get going anyway. Early shift tomorrow."

The familiar excuse twists something in my chest. Two weeks ago, he'd have suggested a late dinner, or a nightcap at some hidden bar he knew. Now he can't wait to escape my company.

"Right." I nod, trying not to let my disappointment show. "I'll get a car."

As we step outside, the spring evening that had been merely overcast when we arrived has transformed into a downpour. Rain hammers the pavement, turning the street into a river.

"Perfect," I mutter, pulling out my phone to order a car. The app shows a fifteen-minute wait for the nearest driver. "Looks like we'll be getting soaked."

Max glances at the deluge, then at my obviously not-waterproof silk dress. Something like his old protectiveness flickers across his face.

"My apartment's two blocks from here," he says after a moment's hesitation. "We could wait it out there. The forecast says it should pass quickly."

The offer surprises me. "Are you sure?"

"It's just practical," he says, already shrugging off his jacket. "Here. Not much, but better than nothing."

He holds his jacket over our heads as we make a dash for it, splashing through puddles that immediately ruin my three-hundred-dollar heels. By the time we reach his building, we're both drenched despite his efforts.