Chapter 3
THREE
Lena
I've staged hundreds of photo-worthy moments in my career—sunset yoga poses, candlelit dinners for one that were actually for three million, "spontaneous" laughter over coffee with friends. I can manufacture authenticity like some people bake cookies. But as I adjust my dress for the fifth time, checking the lighting in this carefully selected corner of the park, I realize I've never had to manufacture chemistry before. That was always real, even when everything else was smoke and mirrors.
My phone buzzes with a text from Tori:
Any update on Operation Boyfriend? The Glow Cosmetics contract is hanging by a thread.
I sigh as I type back.
Working on it. First official photos today.
Three dots dance as she replies.
Make it good. We need something to counter the "cold-hearted career climber" narrative Cameron created.
As if I need the reminder. In the week since our coffee shop meeting, Max and I have had exactly two public appearances—casual, no photos, just establishing ourselves as a couple in the wild. Today is different. Today is our Instagram debut, carefully orchestrated to seem effortless.
I've chosen Riverside Park at golden hour, when the light turns everything it touches into honey. The location offers versatility: we can capture playful moments by the fountain, romantic ones beneath the weeping willows, and casual strolls along the path. I've arranged a picnic with photogenic food—nothing too messy—and champagne that looks expensive but won't break the bank if we don't actually drink it.
My dress is perfect: a floral midi that suggests "Sunday afternoon with my love" rather than "meticulously planned photo opportunity." I've kept my makeup light—the "no-makeup makeup" that actually requires fourteen products—and styled my hair in tousled waves that took forty minutes to look effortlessly windblown.
Everything is perfect. Except my anxiety, which thrums beneath my skin like an electrical current.
Cameron's video continues to haunt me. "She stages everything," he'd told his audience, eyes wide with mock sincerity. "Our entire relationship was choreographed for her followers. She'd make me retake photos twenty times because my smile wasn't right or the lighting was off. Nothing about Lena Carter is real."
The worst part? He wasn't entirely wrong. I did direct our photoshoots with precision. I did care about lighting and angles and the story each image told. But he'd conveniently omitted how eagerly he'd participated, how he'd leveraged my platform to boost his own career, how he'd suggested half the staged moments himself.
I shake off the thoughts as I spot Max approaching along the path. He's followed my clothing guidelines—navy button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark jeans, brown leather boots that have seen better days but somehow work with his whole vibe. His hair is slightly tamed from its usual mess, but still maintains that careless wave that suggests he just ran his fingers through it rather than bothering with product.
He looks good. Too good. Not polished like Cameron or my usual type, but authentically attractive in a way that makes my heart beat faster than it should for a business arrangement.
"You found it," I call, waving him over to my carefully arranged picnic.
"Wasn't hard. You described the exact willow tree." He approaches with an easy stride, hands in pockets. "I feel like I'm meeting a spy."
"A spy wouldn't have laid out a picnic with color-coordinated napkins."
"An excellent cover." He surveys the spread with raised eyebrows. "This is…elaborate."
"It's all about the aesthetic." I pat the blanket beside me. "Sit. Look comfortable."
He lowers himself with the stiffness of someone being forced to pose for a family portrait. "I'm not great at looking comfortable when someone tells me to look comfortable."
"Just…relax your shoulders. Lean back on your hands." I demonstrate the pose I want. "Like you're completely at ease on this random Tuesday afternoon."
"It's Wednesday."
"Details." I pull out my phone. "Okay, I'm going to take some casual shots of us enjoying this lovely picnic. Just act natural."
"While you point a camera at me."
"Yes."
He sighs but attempts the pose I showed him. The result is disastrous—his smile tight, shoulders hunched, looking about as natural as a mannequin in a department store window.
"Maybe try..." I adjust his arm, feeling the surprising firmness of his bicep beneath my fingers. "And tilt your head a little…no, the other way."
"This feels ridiculous," he mutters.
"It won't look ridiculous. Trust me."
Ten minutes and dozens of rejected photos later, I'm ready to scream. Max looks progressively more uncomfortable with each shot, and the golden hour light is fading.
"This isn't working," I admit, lowering my phone in frustration.
"You think?" He rolls his shoulders, working out the stiffness. "I told you I'm not photogenic."
"Everyone is photogenic with the right approach." I bite my lip, thinking. "Maybe we're trying too hard. Let's actually have the picnic first, get comfortable with each other."
He looks relieved. "Finally, a plan I can get behind."
I pour us each a glass of champagne—real drinks, not props this time—and hand him one of the artfully arranged charcuterie boxes.
"So," I say, taking a sip, "tell me something about Max Donovan that would never make it into an Instagram caption."
He considers this, popping an olive into his mouth. "I sleep with socks on."
"Horrifying." I laugh. "Even in summer?"
"Year-round. Cold feet." He shrugs. "Your turn."
"Hmm." I think about what parts of myself never make it online. "I still sleep with my childhood teddy bear sometimes. His name is Mr. Sprinkles."
"Mr. Sprinkles?" His eyes crinkle with amusement. "That's adorable."
"He was covered in rainbow sprinkle patterns. I was four and not very creative with names."
"Better than my childhood stuffed animal. I had a dog named Dog."
The conversation flows easier than I expected, shifting from childhood memories to favorite books to terrible first date stories. I find myself genuinely laughing at his dry observations, and slowly, the tension in his posture melts away. He stretches out his legs, gesturing with animated hands as he tells me about a disastrous concert where the power went out mid-song.
"You never mentioned you were a musician," I say, intrigued.
A shadow crosses his face. "Former musician. I don't play much anymore."
"Why not?"
"Creative differences with myself." He deflects with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Your champagne's getting warm."
I recognize a closed door when I see one and don't press further. Instead, I lift my phone casually. "Mind if I take a few shots now? Just keep talking."
He nods, reaching for a strawberry, and I snap a photo—his profile against the setting sun, hand extended, shoulders finally relaxed. The result is surprising in its authenticity.
"That's good," I murmur, encouraged. "Keep being yourself."
"As opposed to being...?"
"Instagram Boyfriend Version 3.0."
He snorts, nearly choking on his strawberry, and I capture the genuine laugh that follows. Each photo gets better as he forgets about the camera, returning to the easy charm that first caught my attention at the bar.
"Tell me about the worst date you've ever been on," I prompt, angling for more natural expressions.
"That's easy. Art gallery opening, 2019. The artist's medium was taxidermied animals dressed as celebrities."
"No." I lower my phone, horrified and fascinated.
"Yes. Marilyn Monroe squirrel. Elvis chipmunk. Madonna raccoon."
"Please tell me you're making this up."
"I wish I were." He shudders dramatically. "I still have nightmares about Beyoncé beaver."
The laugh that bursts out of me is sudden and honest—a real laugh, not the practiced one I use for photos. Max grins, looking pleased with himself, and I capture the moment without thinking. When I check the image, I'm startled by how genuinely happy we both look.
The sun dips lower, casting long shadows and painting everything in gold and rose. I scroll through the photos I've taken, surprised by how many good ones we've managed.
"These actually look…real," I say, more to myself than to him.
Max peers over my shoulder, his breath warm against my cheek. "That's because they are real. You stopped directing and started experiencing."
The observation is so accurate it makes me uncomfortable. I clear my throat, setting down my phone. "We still need one more type of shot."
"Let me guess. The romantic one."
I nod, suddenly nervous. "Nothing intense. Just…couple-y."
"Define 'couple-y.'"
"A kiss. A soft one." I try to sound professional. "It's the money shot for establishing a new relationship online."
He studies me for a long moment, eyes unreadable in the fading light. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah." He shrugs, casual in a way that makes me wonder if he kisses fake girlfriends all the time. "How do you want to stage it?"
The question breaks the spell, reminding me that this is work, not a real date. I slip back into director mode, grateful for the familiar territory.
"Let's move by the willow tree. The hanging branches create a natural frame." I stand, brushing off my dress. "I'll set up my phone on timer."
We position ourselves beneath the willow, its trailing fronds creating a curtain of green-gold light around us. I prop my phone on a nearby rock, angling it carefully.
"I'll need to be close," I say, stepping into his space.
"I figured." His voice is lower now, quieter.
"Put your hands here." I guide his hands to my waist. "And I'll put mine here." I rest my palms lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my right hand.
He's several inches taller than me, even in my sandals with their slight heel. I have to tilt my face up to meet his eyes, which are greener than I remembered, flecked with gold in the sunset light.
"Ten-second timer," I murmur, reaching back to start it. "Just a gentle kiss. Nothing deep."
"Got it. Gentle." His hands tighten slightly on my waist.
I turn back to him, suddenly aware of how close we are, how warm his hands feel through the thin fabric of my dress. My pulse quickens as the seconds tick down.
"Ready?" I whisper.
He nods, and then he's leaning down as I rise on my toes, and our lips meet just as I hear the subtle click of my phone capturing the moment.
I meant to keep it brief—a peck, really, just enough to look convincing on Instagram. But his lips are soft and warm, and they move against mine with a gentle pressure that makes my eyes flutter closed. His hands slide from my waist to the small of my back, not pulling me closer but simply holding me steady, as if he senses my sudden dizziness.
The kiss is soft but not tentative—more like a question being asked in a language I almost understand. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine, I realize I've curled my fingers into the fabric of his shirt.
"Was that okay?" he asks, voice rough at the edges. "For the photo?"
Reality crashes back. The photo. The fake relationship. The entire arrangement that has nothing to do with how his kiss just made my knees go embarrassingly weak.
"Perfect," I manage, stepping back to retrieve my phone with hands that aren't quite steady. "Very convincing."
The photo is better than I dared hope—both of us with eyes closed, his hands respectfully at my waist, my fingers against his chest, the golden light filtering through the willow branches around us like nature's own filter. It looks…genuine. Like a couple sharing a tender moment, unaware they're being photographed.
It looks like everything my followers want to believe about love.
"That should work," I say, aiming for businesslike and missing by a mile.
"Good." Max runs a hand through his hair, messing up its careful styling. "Is that a wrap, director?"
The teasing tone helps restore my equilibrium. "For today. You actually did great once you relaxed."
We pack up the picnic in comfortable silence. As we walk back toward the park entrance, Max casually takes my hand, interlacing our fingers.
"What are you doing?" I ask, startled.
"Hand-holding in public. Isn't that in the manual?" His smile is innocent, but something in his eyes suggests he knows exactly what effect he's having on me. "We might be seen."
"Right." I clear my throat. "Good thinking."
His hand is warm around mine, calluses from what I now know is guitar-playing rough against my palm. The contrast between his hands and Cameron's smooth ones is stark. Cameron was meticulous about his skincare routine, his hands always smelling faintly of expensive lotion. Max's hands tell a different story—one of work and music and life lived outside of careful curation.
We part ways at the subway entrance, our goodbye casual and friendly. But as I ride home, editing the willow tree photo for maximum impact before posting it, I keep thinking about that kiss—how it was supposed to be performance but felt like discovery.
My phone chimes with notifications as the photo goes live with a carefully casual caption: Some days surprise you in the best possible ways
Comments flood in immediately:
*Who is this mystery man?!*
*OMG you look so happy!*
*The way he's looking at you…girl*
Tori texts seconds later:
THIS is what I'm talking about! Perfect counter-narrative to Cameron's BS. Keep it up.
I should feel triumphant. Phase one of Operation Reputation Rescue is a success. But alone in my apartment, I find myself touching my lips, remembering the gentle pressure of Max's kiss, wondering if he's thinking about it too or if I'm just another job to him.
It was fake, I remind myself sternly. Manufactured intimacy for the camera.
But as I drift off to sleep, one stubborn thought follows me into dreams: if that kiss was fake, why did it feel more real than anything I've experienced in years?