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I don't know yet. But I'm thinking about it.

It's not forgiveness, not yet. But for the first time in two weeks, it's not a definitive end either. And maybe, just maybe, that's a start.

TWENTY-TWO

Max

The Luminous Beautyphotographer instructs us to "look more in love," apparently dissatisfied with our perfectly executed professional smiles. Beside me, Lena shifts imperceptibly, maintaining the appropriate distance we've established over the past week—close enough for camera purposes, far enough to avoid any accidental touches. We've become experts at this choreographed performance: the careful positioning, the practiced expressions, the illusion of intimacy without any of the real connection. It's been ten days since my musical disaster in her apartment, ten days of respectfully giving her the time and space she requested while simultaneously appearing to be the happily engaged couple our contract requires. The contradiction would be almost comical if it didn't hurt so damn much to hold her hand and remember how it used to feel when she held mine back.

"Maybe try looking at each other?" the photographer suggests, frustration evident in his voice. "You know, like you actually enjoy each other's company?"

Lena turns toward me, her professional smile never wavering. To anyone else, she looks like the picture of poised perfection—hair styled in glossy waves, makeup flawless, wearing the champagne-colored dress selected to complement the "Forever Luminous" product line. But I know her well enough to see the strain around her eyes, the almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders.

"Sorry," she murmurs to the photographer. "Just a little tired today."

Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, the mask slips—I glimpse the real Lena beneath the professional veneer, equally exhausted by this charade. Then she blinks, and it's gone, replaced by the practiced warmth she uses for campaign shoots.

"Let's take five," calls Victoria from behind the photographer. "Makeup touch-ups for both of them. We need that glow, people!"

As the makeup artist descends on Lena with powder and brushes, I step away, grateful for the momentary reprieve. These shoots have become increasingly difficult—the physical proximity highlighting the emotional distance, the forced intimacy a painful reminder of what we've lost.

"You two are killing me," Tori says, appearing at my elbow with a cup of coffee that she practically shoves into my hands. "The photos look like a hostage situation, not an engagement campaign."

"We're doing our best," I mutter, accepting the coffee gratefully. "Professional boundaries, remember?"

"Professional boundaries don't mean looking like you'd rather be having root canal surgery than touching each other." She glances over at Lena, who's nodding politely as the makeup artist chatters away. "This isn't working, and Victoria's starting to notice."

"What do you suggest? We can't manufacture chemistry on command."

Tori gives me a look that makes me feel like a particularly dense student. "You two don't need to manufacture anything. You just need to stop pretending you don't still have feelings for each other and actually talk."

"She asked for time and space," I remind her. "I'm respecting that."

"Time and space doesn't mean arctic emotional distance during contracted photo shoots." She checks her watch. "After this set, there's a thirty-minute break while they reset for the evening wear portion. The green room will be empty." She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. "Just saying."

Before I can respond, we're called back to our marks. Lena rejoins me, freshly powdered and still carefully maintaining that crucial few inches of space between us.

"Everything okay?" she asks, professional courtesy rather than genuine concern.

"Fine," I reply automatically. "You?"

"Perfect."

The lie hangs between us as the photographer resumes his position, calling for us to move closer, to look into each other's eyes, to fake the connection we once didn't have to pretend.

The next hour passes in a blur of poses and lighting adjustments, each moment stretching my acting abilities to their limit. When Victoria finally calls for the break, relief floods through me—followed immediately by nervous anticipation as I catch Tori's pointed glance toward the hallway leading to the green room.

This is my chance to talk to Lena privately, to continue the conversation started in her apartment, to see if there's any hope of rebuilding what we've lost. But as I watch her step away, immediately checking her phone with that slight furrow between her brows that appears when she's stressed, I hesitate. She asked for time. Am I pushing too hard by seeking her out now?

Before I can overthink it further, Lena looks up, catching me watching her. For a moment, we just stare at each other across the studio, all pretense temporarily abandoned. Then, to my surprise, she tilts her head slightly toward the hallway—a question, an invitation.

I nod once, hope flaring in my chest as I follow her at a discreet distance.

The green room is mercifully empty, a comfortable space with couches and refreshments meant for talent to relax between setups. Lena closes the door behind us, immediately creating distance by moving to the opposite side of the room.

"Tori suggested we talk," she says, confirming my suspicion that this wasn't coincidental.

"She mentioned the photos look like a hostage situation," I admit, attempting humor to break the tension.