Page 56

SIXTEEN

Lena

I stare at my reflection,oddly nervous about a date with a man who's seen me at my absolute worst—sick with food poisoning, tear-streaked after a brutal comment section, half-asleep with drool on my chin. Max has witnessed every unflattering version of Lena Carter that my Instagram followers will never see, yet here I am, second-guessing my outfit choice for the third time. The difference is that tonight isn't for the cameras or the content calendar or the Luminous Beauty campaign. Tonight is just for us—a real date with my fake-but-actually-real fiancé, who's picking me up in twenty minutes for what he mysteriously described as "an excursion into authenticity."

The jeans and oversized sweater I've settled on are a far cry from the carefully styled looks I wear for public consumption. My hair falls in its natural waves instead of the perfect curls my stylist creates, and my makeup is minimal—just tinted moisturizer, mascara, and a touch of lip balm. I look like me, but not the version three million followers think they know.

When Max and I first started this arrangement, I maintained my polished image even in private, a habit born from years of living life on display. The transition from performance to reality happened so gradually I barely noticed—a makeup-free morning here, unwashed hair there, until suddenly I realized I no longer felt the need to curate myself for an audience of one. Especially when that one seemed to prefer the unfiltered version anyway.

Our lives have developed a strange duality since admitting our feelings were real. In public, we play the picture-perfect influencer couple—attending events, posing for campaign photos, performing our relationship for likes and sponsorships. In private, we bicker about which takeout to order, binge trashy reality shows, and exist in a bubble of surprising normalcy that I've come to treasure more than any perfectly composed Instagram post.

The doorbell rings, sending an unexpected flutter through my stomach. It's ridiculous to be nervous. This is Max—the same Max who's seen my entire collection of embarrassing pajamas, who knows I secretly love cheesy 80s power ballads, who's held my hair back that time I mixed tequila and sushi (never again).

Yet when I open the door, the sight of him leaning against the wall with that crooked smile still makes my heart skip. He's dressed simply in dark jeans and a gray henley that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his hair its usual artful mess.

"Hi," I say, suddenly shy.

His eyes move over me, taking in the casual outfit, the natural face, the bare feet. "You look beautiful," he says, his voice low and sincere in a way that makes me believe him despite years of conditioning to think beauty requires effort and enhancement.

"I'm not even wearing shoes yet."

"Especially because of that." He steps inside, hands settling on my waist as he presses a soft kiss to my lips. "Ready for our adventure?"

"That depends. Does this adventure require hiking boots? Because if so, we need to seriously reassess our compatibility."

He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. "No hiking. Though you might want closed-toe shoes. And maybe grab a jacket—it gets cool at night."

"Still cryptic," I observe, slipping on sneakers and grabbing a denim jacket from the closet. "Should I be concerned that you're being so mysterious? Are you taking me to some underground fight club? A secret society initiation?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise." He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers with the easy familiarity we've developed. "Trust me?"

The question carries more weight than his light tone suggests. Trust doesn't come easily to me—not in this industry, not after Cameron, not with the constant awareness that everything can be performance. But with Max...

"Yes," I say simply. "I trust you."

His expression softens, understanding the significance of those three words. "Then let's go."

We take his car—a modest, slightly battered Subaru that's the antithesis of the sleek rideshare vehicles we usually use for public appearances. As we drive out of the city, Max connects his phone to the stereo, filling the car with the indie folk music he loves. I watch his profile as he drives, occasionally singing along quietly, completely unselfconscious in a way I still struggle to be.

"You never sing around me," I observe as he hits a particularly soulful note with surprising precision.

His hands flex slightly on the steering wheel. "Force of habit, I guess."

"You miss it, don't you? Music."

A silence stretches between us, broken only by the gentle guitar from the speakers. Finally, he nods. "Sometimes. But it's complicated."

"Because of what happened with your band?" I venture carefully, aware this is territory he rarely discusses.

"Among other things." His tone isn't closed off exactly, but it suggests now isn't the time. I let it go, respecting his boundaries as he respects mine.

As we leave the city behind, concrete gives way to trees, buildings to open spaces. After about an hour of driving, Max turns onto a narrow road that winds through dense woods, eventually revealing a small cabin nestled among the trees. It's rustic but charming, with a wide porch and warm lights glowing in the windows.

"Here we are," he announces, putting the car in park. "My uncle's place. He lets me use it sometimes when he's away."

"It's beautiful," I say, genuinely surprised. This peaceful retreat is nothing like the trendy, Instagram-worthy locations I usually frequent. There's not a single neon sign or artfully distressed brick wall in sight—just nature, solitude, and quiet.

"I thought we deserved one night completely off the grid," Max explains as he retrieves a duffel bag from the trunk. "No cameras, no expectations, no performance. Just us."