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"You clean up pretty well yourself," I reply, straightening his already-perfect tie as an excuse to touch him. "Those beauty editors seemed thoroughly charmed."

"Professional hazard." He shrugs modestly. "I spent years perfecting the art of making strangers like me enough to tip well."

A waiter passes with champagne, and Max exchanges our empty glasses for full ones. As our fingers brush during the handoff, I'm transported back to last night—his hands moving over my skin, his voice rough as he admitted he loved me too.

"About last night," I begin, wanting to acknowledge what was said between us, even here in this public space.

His expression softens, understanding immediately. "I meant it," he says quietly. "Every word."

"Me too." The simple confirmation settles something inside me. "It's strange, isn't it? How this all started versus where we are now?"

"The best plot twist." He glances around to ensure no one is watching too closely, then brushes a strand of hair from my face—a gesture too intimate for our public performance, something just for us. "I need to tell you something later, after this event. Something important."

Before I can ask what he means, Victoria reappears, practically vibrating with organizational energy. "Max! There you are. The photographer needs you for some individual shots by the product display. Something about capturing the 'male perspective' on beauty."

Max rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Duty calls. Save my place?"

"Always," I promise, watching as Victoria whisks him away toward the elaborate display of glittering 'Forever Luminous' products arranged like modern art in the center of the rooftop.

Left momentarily alone, I survey the party—the who's who of beauty influencers, editors, and industry executives all pretending they're not competing for the best content opportunities. My world, but one that feels increasingly foreign as my private life with Max grows more authentic.

I notice he's left his phone on the high-top table beside us. Typical Max—perpetually forgetting his phone despite living in the digital age. I pick it up, intending to bring it to him for the inevitable moment when he realizes it's missing.

The screen lights up with an incoming text notification, visible even on the lock screen:

So did you tell Instagram Girl about the bet yet? Tick tock, Romeo. You owe me a month's rent!

Time stops. The ambient noise of the party fades to a distant buzz as I read the message again, certain I've misunderstood. A bet? About me? About…what?

My fingers feel numb as I set the phone back on the table, the screen going dark but the words seared into my mind. A bet. Max made some sort of bet about me. The revelation crashes through me like a wrecking ball, demolishing the careful structure of trust I've been building.

I look across the room to where Max is posing for photos, smiling that smile that I thought was just for me. Was any of it real? Or was I just a challenge to overcome, a game to win or lose? The questions multiply, each more painful than the last.

My first instinct is confrontation—to march across the room, throw his phone at him, demand an explanation. But a deeper, more primal reaction takes over: self-protection. The public setting. The cameras. The familiar sensation of being used for someone else's agenda.

Cameron's face flashes in my mind—his calculated betrayal, the way he weaponized our relationship for views. Is Max just another version of the same story? A different approach but the same ending—Lena Carter, duped again, her trust exploited for someone else's gain?

The plastic ring in my clutch now feels like a cruel joke rather than a symbol of our private truth. How many people knew about this bet? How long has he been laughing about it with his friends while telling me he saw the "real me"?

"Lena?" Tori appears at my elbow, frowning at whatever she sees in my expression. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I need air," I manage, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "Cover for me?"

"What? Lena, the unveiling is in fifteen minutes. Victoria will have a conniption if you're not?—"

"Please." The word comes out more desperate than intended. "Five minutes. I just need five minutes."

Concern overtakes her professional objections. "What happened?"

I can't formulate the words, can't bear to say it aloud and make it real. Instead, I gesture weakly toward Max's phone. "Check his messages," I whisper. "From Ryan."

Confused but trusting me, Tori picks up the phone just as another text comes in, lighting up the screen. I don't need to see her face to know she's reading the same revelation that's currently shattering my world.

"Oh, Lena," she breathes, looking up with a mixture of anger and sympathy. "That absolute bastard."

The confirmation breaks something loose inside me. Tears press hot behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall—not here, not surrounded by industry peers and photographers eager for a dramatic moment to capture.

"I need to leave," I say, decision crystallizing. "Now."