Chapter 5
FIVE
Max
Three family dinners and seven public appearances later, I'm in deeper than I want to admit. The line between fake and real blurs a little more each time Lena's hand finds mine, each time her laugh sounds less practiced and more genuine. It's getting harder to remember this is a business arrangement with an expiration date, especially when her followers comment on our Instagram posts about how "natural" we look together. Ryan texts daily, asking if I'm ready to admit defeat on our bet. I'm not. But I'm not exactly winning either.
Today I'm picking Lena up from her office for the first time. Our usual routine involves meeting at restaurants or parks—neutral territories for our choreographed romance. But she's running late on some project, so I've agreed to meet her at what she calls her "creative workspace" before we head to dinner.
The building is sleek glass and steel, housing various marketing firms and digital media startups. The lobby directory lists "Carter Creative Consulting" on the fourth floor. Even her business name is perfectly alliterative, perfectly branded.
I feel out of place the moment I step off the elevator, my worn leather jacket and jeans a stark contrast to the minimalist white-and-gray decor. A small reception area sits empty—apparently it's after hours for regular staff. A hallway stretches behind it, lined with glass-walled offices and meeting rooms.
"Lena?" I call out, unsure where to go.
No answer. I check my phone—I'm actually fifteen minutes early, a habit ingrained from years of setting up equipment before gigs. Finding myself alone, I take the opportunity to explore this part of Lena's world that I haven't seen before.
The office is exactly what I'd expect from her Instagram aesthetic—clean lines, strategic pops of color, motivational phrases in trendy typography on the walls. Photos of Lena with various products line one hallway—her posing with skincare bottles, workout equipment, a subscription food box. In each image, she looks flawless and completely at ease, the perfect aspirational figure.
I pause at a framed magazine cover featuring her with the headline "Digital Influence: The New Marketing Frontier." There's something surreal about dating—fake dating—someone successful enough to be on magazine covers, someone whose career involves being desired and admired by strangers.
Approaching what appears to be the main office at the end of the hall, I hear Lena's voice, animated in a way I rarely experience in person.
"The numbers are incredible, Tori. Engagement up sixty-three percent since the first post with Max. The sentiment analysis shows a complete reversal from six weeks ago."
I freeze, hand raised to knock. Through the partially open door, I can see Lena pacing, phone pressed to her ear, gesturing with her free hand.
"I know, I know. It's working better than we expected." She laughs, the sound light and triumphant. "The boyfriend strategy was genius. You were completely right."
My stomach drops. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I can't seem to move.
"The gravy boat incident?" She laughs again. "God, that was perfect. Couldn't have staged it better myself. Made me look so relatable, like I'm not afraid to mess up my designer dress. The post got more engagement than anything I've done this year."
I remember that moment—the warmth of her genuine laughter, how it transformed the dinner from awkward to intimate. How it made me feel like I was seeing the real Lena, not the carefully curated version. Finding out it was just another calculated content opportunity stings more than it should.
"No, no, he has no idea how well it's working." Her voice drops slightly. "He thinks we're just doing this to counter Cameron's video, but this is so much bigger. Glow Cosmetics is back on board, and Natural Home just reached out about a potential partnership."
She pauses, listening to whoever Tori is.
"Of course I'll need to keep him around until after the Luminous Beauty event. Having an adoring boyfriend at the gala will seal the comeback narrative." Another pause. "Don't worry, he's completely manageable. A little attention, some hand-holding, he's like a puppy."
Like a puppy. The words hit me like a physical blow.
"I've got to go—he's picking me up for dinner. Another perfectly orchestrated casual date." I can hear the smile in her voice. "I'm thinking vulnerable post tonight, something about 'finding someone who appreciates the real me.' The algorithm loves that authenticity bait."
Anger flares hot in my chest. Authenticity bait. That's all this is to her—all I am. Content. A strategy. A way to manipulate her audience into thinking she's genuine.
I step back from the door, my mind racing. I knew this was fake, knew it was a business arrangement, but I'd convinced myself there was some real connection developing beneath the performance. That some of those laughs, those quiet moments, those conversations were genuine. That I was more than a prop in her carefully crafted redemption story.
I was an idiot.
Taking a deep breath, I school my features and knock loudly on the door, as if I've just arrived. "Lena? You in there?"
She appears in the doorway, face lighting up with a smile that now looks painfully artificial. "Max! You're early."
"Traffic was light." My voice sounds stiff even to my own ears.
If she notices, she doesn't show it. "Let me grab my bag and we can go." She slips back into the office, still talking. "I was just wrapping up a call with my manager. Good news on a new partnership."
"Congratulations." The word tastes bitter.
She emerges with a designer purse and her perfect smile. "Ready for dinner? I've been looking forward to this all day."
Has she? Or is it just another performance, another opportunity for "authenticity bait"?
"Sure." I manage a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Lead the way."
As we walk to the elevator, she slips her hand into mine with practiced ease. The gesture that had started to feel natural now feels calculated, choreographed. I resist the urge to pull away, reminding myself that I agreed to this. I'm being paid in free meals and social opportunities. She never pretended it was anything else.
But that doesn't stop it from hurting.
* * *
Dinner is excruciating. We're at a small Italian place that Lena chose because it has "the perfect lighting for evening shots," and I'm struggling to maintain even the appearance of enthusiasm.
"Is everything okay?" she asks after my third one-word response to her questions. "You seem distracted."
"Just tired." I take a sip of wine, avoiding her eyes. "Long shift yesterday."
"We could have rescheduled if you needed to rest." Her brow furrows with what looks like genuine concern, but I now know better than to trust it.
"It's fine." I shrug. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Something flickers across her face—confusion, maybe hurt. Good acting. "Yes, you are. Physically, at least."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you've barely looked at me since we sat down." She sets her fork down. "If something's bothering you, just say it."
I consider calling her out, telling her I overheard everything. But what would be the point? This was never real. I knew that from the beginning. It's my own fault for forgetting, for letting myself think there might be something authentic beneath the performance.
"Nothing's bothering me," I lie. "Just not feeling particularly chatty tonight."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. We all have off days." She picks up her phone. "Mind if I take a quick photo? The lighting is perfect right now."
Of course. The content never stops. "Go ahead."
She raises her phone, then lowers it without taking a picture. "Actually, never mind. Let's just enjoy dinner."
The gesture would seem considerate if I hadn't heard her earlier conversation. Now it just feels like another manipulation—showing she "respects my boundaries" so I'll be more compliant later.
We finish the meal in uncomfortable silence. When the check comes, I reach for it automatically, but Lena is faster.
"Please," she says, "let me. You paid last time."
Because that's what a real boyfriend would do. Keep the illusion intact. "Fine."
Outside, the spring evening is surprisingly cool. Lena shivers slightly in her light jacket, and two weeks ago I would have put my arm around her without thinking. Tonight, I keep my hands in my pockets.
"Do you want to grab a drink somewhere?" she asks, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "There's a nice bar just around the corner."
"Actually, I should head home. Early shift tomorrow."
"Oh." She blinks, clearly not expecting this deviation from our usual script. "Sure. That's…fine."
An awkward silence falls. We stand on the sidewalk, two people who have held hands, shared meals, kissed for cameras, yet suddenly feel like strangers.
"I'll get you a cab," I finally say, stepping toward the curb.
"Don't bother." She pulls out her phone. "I'll order a car."
"Suit yourself."
She looks up sharply. "What is going on with you tonight? Did I do something wrong?"
Yes. No. I don't even know anymore. "Nothing's going on. Like I said, I'm tired."
"This isn't tired, Max. This is cold. This is distant." She steps closer, searching my face. "If you want out of our arrangement, just say so. Don't shut down on me."
For a moment, I'm tempted. End it now, walk away before I get in any deeper. But if I do that, Ryan wins the bet. And more importantly, I'd have to admit that this fake relationship affected me enough to make me walk away. That she affected me.
"I don't want out," I say finally. "It's just been a long day. I'll be fine tomorrow."
Relief crosses her face, quickly masked. "Good. Because I need you at the charity event next weekend. It's important."
Of course. The event. The partnerships. The content. Never about me, always about what I can do for her image.
"I'll be there," I promise flatly. "The perfect boyfriend."
Her car arrives, saving me from having to maintain the facade any longer. She hesitates, then leans in to kiss my cheek—a gesture we've performed dozens of times for her Instagram story.
"Get some rest," she says softly. "I'll text you tomorrow."
I watch her car pull away, the hollow feeling in my chest expanding. The worst part isn't that she's using me—I agreed to that from the beginning. It's that I let myself forget it was all an act. Let myself believe some of those smiles, those touches, those quiet conversations might be real.
The walk home is long and cold, my thoughts circling like vultures. By the time I reach my apartment, I've constructed steel walls around whatever foolish emotions had started to develop. This is business. Nothing more. And I've got three more weeks to get through before I can put Lena Carter and her perfect manufactured life behind me.
* * *
The next day at work, I'm on autopilot. Mixing drinks, making small talk, going through the motions while my mind replays Lena's words over and over. He's completely manageable. A little attention, some hand-holding, he's like a puppy.
"Earth to Max." Ryan waves a hand in front of my face. "You just put tonic in an Old Fashioned."
I curse, dumping the ruined drink. "Sorry. Distracted."
"Clearly." He leans against the bar, eyeing me suspiciously. "Girlfriend troubles?"
"She's not my girlfriend."
"Right. The arrangement." He rolls his eyes. "Which is going so well you're destroying perfectly good bourbon."
I start the drink over, carefully measuring ingredients. "It's fine. Just overheard something I wasn't supposed to hear."
Ryan's eyebrows shoot up. "Do tell."
"Nothing to tell. Just a reminder that this is strictly business to her."
"And that bothers you because...?"
"It doesn't," I snap, more harshly than intended. "It's exactly what we agreed to."
Ryan watches me for a moment, then nods slowly. "Right. Totally buying that."
I'm saved from responding by a commotion at the entrance. A group of after-work professionals streams in, filling the previously quiet bar with chatter. I throw myself into the sudden rush, grateful for the distraction.
Three hours and dozens of cocktails later, the crowd has thinned enough that I can breathe again. I'm wiping down the bar when the door opens once more, and instinctively I look up.
Lena stands in the entrance, scanning the room. She's dressed more casually than I've ever seen her—jeans, a simple sweater, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She spots me and strides over, determination in every step.
"We need to talk," she says without preamble.
"I'm working." I gesture to the bar. "As you can see."
"Then I'll wait." She slides onto a stool directly in front of me, setting her purse on the counter with a finality that says she's not going anywhere.
Ryan appears from the back room, eyes widening when he spots Lena. "Well, well. You must be the famous fake girlfriend."
Lena turns to him, confusion flickering across her face. "And you are?"
"Ryan. Max's roommate and the person who has to listen to him not talk about you." He extends a hand, which she shakes automatically. "He's very committed to pretending this arrangement isn't messing with his head."
"Ryan," I warn, "don't you have inventory to check?"
"Nope. All done." He grins, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "But I'll make myself scarce anyway. Nice to finally meet you, Lena."
He saunters away, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.
"Drink?" I offer, more to have something to do with my hands than out of hospitality.
"No, thanks." She leans forward, elbows on the bar. "I want to know what changed. Everything was fine until yesterday. We were connecting, finding a rhythm, and then suddenly you're treating me like I'm toxic."
"Nothing changed." I busy myself organizing bottles that don't need organizing. "I told you, I was tired."
"Bullshit." The sharpness in her voice pulls my gaze up to meet hers. "Something happened between when we talked on the phone that afternoon and when you picked me up. What was it?"
I consider deflecting again, but the directness in her eyes breaks through my resolve. "I heard you. At your office."
Her brow furrows. "Heard me what?"
"Talking to Tori. About how well your 'boyfriend strategy' is working. About how I'm 'completely manageable' and 'like a puppy.'" The words still sting as I repeat them. "About how you need me for the Luminous Beauty event to 'seal the comeback narrative.'"
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something that looks remarkably like guilt. "Max, that conversation wasn't?—"
"It's fine." I cut her off, not wanting to hear excuses. "Really. It was a good reminder that this is a business arrangement. Nothing more."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I lean closer, lowering my voice. "You're using me to rebuild your brand after your ex trashed it. That was the deal from the beginning. I just forgot for a minute that every moment between us is calculated for maximum engagement. That every laugh, every touch, every conversation is potential content."
Her face pales. "That's not true."
"Authenticity bait," I quote back to her. "That's what you called it."
She flinches as if I've slapped her. "You heard that part too."
"I heard enough."
For a long moment, she simply stares at me, emotions flickering across her face too quickly to read. Then she straightens, composing herself with visible effort.
"I understand why you're upset. That conversation sounded bad without context."
"What possible context would make it better?"
"Tori is my manager, Max. She measures everything in metrics and ROI. That's her job." Lena runs a hand through her hair, messing up her ponytail further. "Yes, I was talking about engagement numbers and partnerships because that's the professional reality of my life. And yes, part of this arrangement was always about changing the narrative after Cameron's video."
"You made that quite clear."
"But that doesn't mean—" She stops, seemingly frustrated with her inability to find the right words. "Look, the numbers are real. The partnerships are real. But that doesn't mean my interactions with you are fake."
I scoff. "Right."
"I'm serious." She reaches across the bar, not quite touching me but close. "Do you think I tell all my fake boyfriends about Mr. Sprinkles? Or bring them to family dinners? Or laugh when they spill gravy all over my favorite dress?"
"I don't know, Lena. How many fake boyfriends have you had?"
"Just you." Her voice softens. "And yes, I posted about the gravy incident because it was good content. But I laughed because it was genuinely funny. I enjoy spending time with you, Max. More than I should, given the temporary nature of our arrangement."
The sincerity in her eyes makes my resolve waver. I want to believe her. But I also wanted to believe there was something real developing between us before, and look where that got me.
"So what do you want from me?" I ask finally. "To pretend I didn't hear you referring to me as a manageable puppy?"
She winces. "That was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say. I was putting on a show for Tori because she's worried I'm getting too invested in this." She takes a deep breath. "The truth is, I like you, Max. As a person. As more than just a strategy. And I think—I hope—you feel something too."
The admission catches me off guard. It's the most unscripted I've ever seen her, the most vulnerable. For a moment, I'm tempted to let my walls down, to admit that yes, there is something there, something that scared me enough to withdraw when I thought it wasn't reciprocated.
But the memory of her calculated tone, the way she talked about me like I was just a tool in her image rehabilitation, still stings too fresh.
"I think we need to stick to the original plan," I say finally. "Keep it professional. Follow the script. Get through the next few weeks."
Disappointment flashes across her face before she masks it. "If that's what you want."
"It's what we agreed to."
She nods slowly. "Okay. Professional it is." She slides off the stool, gathering her purse. "But Max?"
"Yeah?"
"Not everything is a performance. Remember that." She offers a small, sad smile. "I'll text you about the charity event details."
I watch her leave, her shoulders straight despite the defeat in her eyes. The urge to call her back, to apologize, to admit that yes, I do feel something, rises in my throat. But fear holds me in place—fear of being made a fool, of caring for someone who sees me as content rather than a person.
"Smooth," Ryan comments, materializing beside me. "Real smooth."
"Shut up."
"You know, for someone who was so sure he wouldn't catch feelings, you're doing a spectacular job of acting exactly like someone with feelings."
I glare at him. "Shouldn't you be bothering someone else?"
"Probably." He picks up a clean glass, inspecting it unnecessarily. "But watching you sabotage something potentially good is much more entertaining."
"There's nothing to sabotage. It's fake, remember? A business arrangement."
"Keep telling yourself that." He sets down the glass with a definitive click. "But from where I'm standing, the only person being fake right now is you."
He walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the hollow feeling that I might have just made a terrible mistake.