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Her smile brightens, transforming her entire face. "I'd like that very much."

"I'll pick you up at seven?"

"Seven is perfect." She reaches up, adjusting my collar with a familiar gesture that sends warmth spreading through me. "And Max? Maybe bring your guitar. I'd like to hear the end of that song someday."

"I'll have a new string by then," I promise, joy bubbling up within me. "No property damage guaranteed."

Her laugh—real and unrestrained—follows us back to the set, where Victoria looks visibly relieved by our changed demeanor. As we take our positions for the next series of photos, Lena's hand finds mine without prompting, her fingers interlacing with natural ease.

"Better!" the photographer exclaims after the first shot. "Much better chemistry now!"

If only he knew. This isn't chemistry—it's history and hope, pain and forgiveness, fear and courage all wrapped into the simple act of holding hands. It's the beginning of something honest, something deliberately chosen with full awareness of the risks. Something real.

As the camera flashes, capturing what appears to be just another moment in our "engagement," I make a silent promise to myself and to Lena: this time, I'll get it right. No secrets, no shortcuts, no hiding from the vulnerability of genuine connection. Whatever it takes, for as long as it takes, I'll prove worthy of the second chance she's offering.

And judging by the way she looks at me between shots—eyes soft with emotion that has nothing to do with the campaign—she's making the same promise too.

TWENTY-THREE

Lena

I've spentthree years perfecting the art of looking "effortlessly casual" for Instagram—a process that ironically requires significant effort, two hours of styling, and approximately seventeen products. Tonight, I'm attempting actual effortlessness, and it's terrifying. My hair falls in its natural waves instead of carefully crafted curls. My face bears minimal makeup—just tinted moisturizer, mascara, and lip balm. The jeans and oversized sweater I've selected wouldn't make the cut for a sponsored post, but they're comfortable and genuinely me. This is date number five with Max since our reconciliation three weeks ago, and I'm still adjusting to this strange new reality where authenticity isn't curated for public consumption but simply…exists. Where I'm not Lena Carter, Influencer Extraordinaire, but just Lena—slightly messy, occasionally awkward, and increasingly comfortable with both those qualities when I'm with him.

My phone buzzes with a text from Tori, checking in about tomorrow's Luminous Beauty event. The duality of my life has never been more pronounced—poised, perfect fiancée by day, authentic girlfriend by night. Surprisingly, the contrast hasn't been as jarring as I expected. If anything, our public appearances have become easier now that real feelings have returned to fuel the performance.

The past three weeks have been a careful dance of rebuilding trust and rediscovering each other. True to his word, Max has been patient, never pushing beyond my comfort zone. Our dates have been deliberately low-key—a walk through Brooklyn Botanic Garden, dinner at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with the best dumplings I've ever tasted, an afternoon at a used bookstore where we challenged each other to find the most ridiculous self-help title. Each encounter stripped of pretense, each conversation deeper than the last.

The strangest part? None of it has appeared on my Instagram. Not a single photo, not one carefully crafted caption about "#datenight" or "#relationshipgoals." For the first time since building my brand, I'm experiencing moments without mentally composing content around them—and it's both terrifying and liberating.

The doorbell rings, sending a flutter of anticipation through me that feels adolescent in its intensity. I check my reflection one last time—not for flaws to correct but simply out of habit—then open the door to find Max standing there with that crooked smile that still makes my heart skip.

"Hi," he says, taking in my appearance with appreciation that feels more meaningful than any number of likes or comments. "You look beautiful."

"You always say that," I reply, unable to keep the pleasure from my voice. "Even when I look like this."

"Especially when you look like this." He steps forward, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "Ready for an adventure?"

"That depends on what kind of adventure you have planned." I grab my jacket and purse, locking the door behind us. "Your definition has proven somewhat broader than mine."

His laugh echoes in the hallway as we head for the elevator. "Nothing involving heights or extreme physical exertion, I promise. Though I maintain that mini-golf should not count as 'sports.'"

"It involved a club and competitive scoring. That's sports adjacent at minimum."

The easy banter continues as we leave my building and start walking, his hand finding mine with natural familiarity. I've noticed that Max prefers walking when possible, enjoying the city in a way my Uber-dependent lifestyle never allowed. It's one of many small discoveries I've made in this new, honest phase of our relationship.

"So where are we going?" I ask as we turn down a street I don't immediately recognize.

"Remember how you told me about visiting your grandparents in Queens when you were little? About that Italian ice place you loved?"

I stop walking, genuinely surprised. "You found it?"

"I did some research," he admits, looking pleased with himself. "Apparently it's still there, still family-owned. I thought we could check if it lives up to your childhood memories."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture catches me off guard. It was a passing comment during one of our early dates, a childhood memory I'd almost forgotten myself. The fact that he not only remembered but built an entire evening around it touches something deep inside me.

"That's..." I struggle to find adequate words. "That's perfect."

His smile widens. "I also made dinner reservations nearby. Nothing fancy, but the reviews mentioned incredible chicken parmesan."