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"I'll see you at the charity gala on Friday," I say, already turning to leave. "I'll be sure to bring my A-game fake boyfriend skills. Wouldn't want to disappoint your followers."

"Max, wait?—"

But I'm already walking away, pushing through the brunch crowd, desperate for fresh air and distance from the woman who's somehow gotten under my skin despite all my best efforts to remain detached.

Outside, the spring sunshine feels like a mockery of my mood. I walk aimlessly, hands shoved in my pockets, replaying the disaster of a brunch in my mind. I shouldn't care this much. This was always temporary, always fake. The fact that we slept together shouldn't change that.

But it has. And judging by the look in Lena's eyes when I walked out, I'm not the only one struggling to separate the performance from whatever real thing is growing between us, whether we want it to or not.

NINE

Lena

The dress is liquid silver,clinging to every curve like it was painted on by an artist with questionable intentions. I study my reflection with clinical detachment, mentally cataloging details that will translate well to Instagram. The smoky eye makeup is flawless, the contouring subtle enough to look natural in photos while still sculpting my features to perfection. My hair falls in loose waves that took my stylist forty-five minutes to arrange in a way that appears effortlessly tousled. Everything is perfect, camera-ready, except for the knot of dread sitting heavy in my stomach at the thought of facing Max after the brunch disaster four days ago.

"You look incredible," Tori declares, circling me with the focused intensity of a shark. "Luminous Beauty is going to lose their minds."

"If Max even shows up," I mutter, adjusting a diamond earring.

Tori's reflection appears behind mine in the mirror, her expression stern. "He'll show. You two had a minor disagreement, not a divorce."

"He almost blew our entire cover in front of my friends. Called himself my 'fake boyfriend' right to their faces."

"But he didn't actually explain the arrangement." Tori taps her tablet, checking something off her digital list. "And your friends bought your explanation that it was just his weird humor."

"Barely." I turn to face her directly. "What if he's done, Tori? What if he decides this isn't worth the hassle anymore?"

Her eyebrows rise fractionally. "Since when do you care if a man thinks you're 'worth the hassle'? This is business, Lena."

The statement should reassure me. After all, that's what I've been telling myself for days—Max is business, nothing more. The night we spent together was a brief detour, a momentary lapse in judgment. But the memory of his face at brunch haunts me—the hurt beneath his sarcasm when I dismissed what happened between us.

"The Luminous Beauty contract depends on tonight going well," Tori continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. "They want to feature you and Max as the face of their new 'Real Beauty, Real Relationships' campaign. If you nail this, we're talking six figures, minimum. Plus, it cements your rehabilitation from the Cameron fallout completely."

"I know." I turn back to the mirror, touching up my lipstick unnecessarily. "It's a big opportunity."

"It's everything we've been working toward," she corrects. "Three months of careful image crafting, strategic appearances, all leading to tonight. So whatever is happening between you and Bartender Boy, put it aside. Keep your eyes on the prize."

My phone buzzes with a text. Max:

Downstairs. Car waiting.

No greeting. No joke. None of his usual warmth. The knot in my stomach tightens.

"He's here," I tell Tori, grabbing my clutch. "How do I look?"

"Like a woman about to secure the biggest deal of her career," she replies confidently. "Now go dazzle them."

The elevator ride to the lobby feels interminable. I rehearse potential greetings in my mind, discarding each as too casual or too formal or too reminiscent of our last heated exchange. By the time the doors slide open, I've settled on a simple, professional "Thank you for coming" that acknowledges nothing of our personal complications.

But the words die on my lips when I see him.

Max stands near the building entrance, his back to me, hands in the pockets of a perfectly tailored tuxedo that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. He's wearing his hair slightly differently—still that careless wave, but more controlled, more deliberate. When he turns at the sound of my approach, the sight of him in full formal wear knocks the air from my lungs.

"Hi," I manage, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager instead of a professional influencer with millions of followers.

His eyes move over me, a careful assessment that leaves heat in its wake. "You look..." He pauses, seeming to choose his words with precision. "Luminous."

The cosmetics brand reference isn't lost on me. This is Max acknowledging the game, reminding me that tonight is about business.