Chapter 6
SIX
Lena
Professional. That's what we agreed on after Max overheard my conversation with Tori. No more blurred lines, no more genuine laughter, no more conversations that drift beyond our manufactured storyline. Just two actors playing parts until the contract ends. It shouldn't bother me. This arrangement was my idea, after all. But as I apply another coat of mascara, preparing for our sixth public appearance since "the incident," I can't ignore the hollowness that's settled in my chest. I miss the Max who looked at me like I was more than an Instagram caption. I miss the warmth that had started to feel real.
My phone pings with a text from him:
On my way. Be there in 20.
No emoticon, no warmth. Just information. I type back an equally sterile response:
Perfect. Will meet you in the lobby.
Tori calls as I'm sliding into my heels. "How's Operation Rebuild going? The metrics look good, but I need your gut check."
"Fine." I check my reflection one last time. "We're heading to the gallery opening tonight. Should get good visibility."
"And how's things with Puppy Boy?"
I wince at the nickname. "Don't call him that. And things are fine."
"That doesn't sound convincing."
"He overheard us talking last week." I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted at the thought of another night of pretending. "The puppy comment, specifically."
"Ah." Tori's quiet for a moment. "That explains the cooler vibe in your latest photos."
"We're keeping it professional now. Just following the script until the contract ends."
"Is that what you want?"
The question catches me off guard. "It doesn't matter what I want. It's a business arrangement."
"Lena." Her voice softens, which is rare for Tori. "I've known you for five years. You don't look at business arrangements the way you look at him in those photos."
"It's called acting."
"Not for you, it isn't." She sighs. "Look, I know I'm the one who pushed the fake boyfriend strategy. And it's working beautifully from a brand perspective. But if there's something real developing?—"
"There isn't," I cut her off, more sharply than intended. "Just doing my job."
"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced. "Just remember that the best content comes from authentic connections. If you're both just going through the motions, followers will sense it."
"I'll keep that in mind." I stand, smoothing my dress. "I need to go. He'll be here soon."
"Good luck." She pauses. "And Lena? It's okay if the lines blur sometimes. You're human, despite what Cameron claimed."
I hang up without responding, her words lingering uncomfortably. The problem isn't that I'm worried about lines blurring—it's that they already did, and now Max has redrawn them with brutal clarity. And it hurts more than it should.
* * *
The gallery opening is exactly as tedious as I expected—pretentious art, overpriced champagne, and social climbers pretending to understand abstract expressionism. In the past, Max and I would have shared amused glances at particularly ridiculous comments, our private joke amid the facade. Tonight, he stands beside me like a handsome statue, polite but distant.
"Shall we look at the next room?" I suggest after twenty minutes of stilted small talk with an artist whose medium is deconstructed beehives.
"Lead the way." Max places his hand at the small of my back as we walk—a gesture that used to feel natural but now seems calculated, a performance for onlookers.
In the next gallery, a photographer I know spots us and waves enthusiastically.
"Lena! I didn't know you'd be here tonight." She air-kisses both my cheeks. "And this must be the boyfriend I've been seeing all over Instagram."
"Max Donovan." He offers his hand with a practiced smile. "Nice to meet you."
"Charming," she says, giving me an approving look. "Much better than the last one. I never liked Cameron—something artificial about him."
The irony nearly makes me laugh. If only she knew how artificial this relationship is.
"Max is definitely more authentic," I say, slipping my arm through his. "That's what attracted me to him initially."
His muscles tense under my touch, but his smile never falters. "Lena values genuineness."
There's an edge to his voice that only I would catch, a subtle dig that makes me want to both slap him and pull him into a private corner to hash this out properly.
The photographer snaps a candid photo of us with her phone. "You two are adorable. Mind if I share this? I'm doing a piece on the gallery for Style Weekly."
"Of course not," I say automatically. More visibility is always good for the brand, even if the relationship behind it is currently held together with tape and good acting.
After she moves on, Max leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "The irony is impressive."
"What is?"
"You valuing authenticity." His voice is low, meant only for me. "Expert-level method acting."
A sharp retort rises to my lips, but I swallow it. This isn't the place. "Just playing my part," I whisper back. "Like we agreed."
His eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering there before the mask slides back into place. "You're very good at it."
"So are you."
For a moment, I see a flash of the real Max—the wry humor, the perceptiveness that first drew me to him. Then it's gone, replaced by the polished performance of Boyfriend Max, who guides me through the gallery with practiced attention.
By the time we've made the necessary rounds, my face aches from maintaining my camera-ready smile. The strain of performing without the undercurrent of genuine connection is exhausting in a way I hadn't anticipated.
"I think we've made enough of an appearance," I say quietly as we circle back to the entrance. "I got several good photos, and the Style Weekly mention should help with visibility."
"Great." Max checks his watch. "I should get going anyway. Early shift tomorrow."
The familiar excuse twists something in my chest. Two weeks ago, he'd have suggested a late dinner, or a nightcap at some hidden bar he knew. Now he can't wait to escape my company.
"Right." I nod, trying not to let my disappointment show. "I'll get a car."
As we step outside, the spring evening that had been merely overcast when we arrived has transformed into a downpour. Rain hammers the pavement, turning the street into a river.
"Perfect," I mutter, pulling out my phone to order a car. The app shows a fifteen-minute wait for the nearest driver. "Looks like we'll be getting soaked."
Max glances at the deluge, then at my obviously not-waterproof silk dress. Something like his old protectiveness flickers across his face.
"My apartment's two blocks from here," he says after a moment's hesitation. "We could wait it out there. The forecast says it should pass quickly."
The offer surprises me. "Are you sure?"
"It's just practical," he says, already shrugging off his jacket. "Here. Not much, but better than nothing."
He holds his jacket over our heads as we make a dash for it, splashing through puddles that immediately ruin my three-hundred-dollar heels. By the time we reach his building, we're both drenched despite his efforts.
"Sorry," he says as we drip our way up three flights of stairs. "Elevator's been out for a month."
"It's fine." I'm past caring about my appearance at this point, my carefully styled hair plastered to my skull, makeup likely creating raccoon eyes.
His apartment is a surprise—not the bachelor disaster I half-expected, but a modest, thoughtfully arranged space. Exposed brick walls, second-hand furniture that somehow works together, and an entire wall dedicated to music—guitars hanging in stands, vinyl records organized meticulously, a keyboard in the corner.
"It's not much," he says, suddenly self-conscious as he watches me take it in.
"It's you," I reply honestly. "I like it."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then guardedness, as if my genuine approval is more threatening than criticism would have been.
"Bathroom's through there." He points down a short hallway. "There should be clean towels under the sink. I'll find you something dry to wear."
The bathroom is small but clean, decorated with the same thoughtful minimalism as the rest of the apartment. I peel off my sodden dress, using a towel to dry off as best I can. My reflection is a disaster—mascara running, hair a tangled mess, the carefully constructed image of Lena Carter completely washed away.
A soft knock at the door. "I've got some clothes," Max calls. "I'll leave them outside."
"Thank you." I wait until his footsteps retreat before cracking the door to retrieve the pile—a faded band t-shirt and sweatpants with a drawstring I'll need to tie several times to keep them from falling off.
When I emerge, he's changed into dry jeans and a henley, his hair still damp but less catastrophic than mine. He glances up from where he's making tea in the small kitchen area, and something flashes in his eyes before he can hide it.
"Better?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"Much." I gesture to my borrowed outfit. "Though I doubt this will end up on my Instagram."
The joke falls flat. He just nods and returns to the tea.
"I hung my dress over the shower rod," I say, filling the awkward silence. "Not sure it's salvageable, but?—"
"It's fine." He hands me a steaming mug. "I don't have fancy tea, just the regular kind."
"Regular tea is perfect." I wrap my hands around the mug, grateful for its warmth. "Thank you. For the rescue."
He shrugs, moving to the window to check the rain, which continues to pour. "Looks like we might be here a while. Sorry about that."
"I'm not in a rush." I take a tentative sip of tea. "Unless you have other plans?"
"Just keeping up the professional arrangement." He turns, leaning against the windowsill, studying me over his own mug. In the soft lighting of his apartment, with the rain drumming against the windows, the carefully maintained distance between us feels both vast and paper-thin.
"Max." I set down my tea. "Can we talk? Really talk, not just play our parts?"
He's silent for a long moment, then sighs. "About what?"
"About how ridiculous this is. How exhausting it is to pretend we don't actually enjoy each other's company."
His jaw tightens. "I thought that was the agreement. Professional. Stick to the script."
"And it's terrible." I step closer, frustrated. "We were good together, Max. Before you overheard that stupid conversation."
"Good at pretending, you mean."
"No. Good together. I laughed more with you in those first few weeks than I have in years." I run a hand through my damp hair, searching for words. "Look, what you heard—yes, I talk about metrics and engagement with Tori. That's part of my job. But that doesn't mean everything between us is calculated."
He studies me, skepticism written across his features. "So which parts are real and which are performance? Because from where I'm standing, it's hard to tell."
The question hits a nerve—the same one that's been raw since Cameron's video. "That's not fair. You knew what this was from the beginning."
"Did I?" He sets his mug down with more force than necessary. "Because I thought I was helping someone change a narrative, not being treated like a trained pet who performs on command."
"That's not how I see you."
"'He's like a puppy,'" he quotes back to me. "Your exact words."
"I was putting on a show for Tori!" My voice rises in frustration. "She was concerned I was getting too invested in something that's supposed to be temporary. I was protecting myself."
"From what?"
"From this!" I gesture between us. "From whatever this is that makes me think about you when we're not together. That makes me miss your stupid jokes and the way you roll your eyes when I'm being too perfectionist about photos. That makes me feel like maybe—just maybe—there's something real developing despite the fake premise."
The words hang between us, more honest than I intended. Max stares at me, his expression unreadable.
"You said it was supposed to mean nothing," he says finally, his voice lower. "A business arrangement."
"I know what I said." I take a step closer. "But things change. People change."
"Do they?" He doesn't back away as I move toward him. "Or are they just better at the performance?"
"There's one way to find out." My heart hammers in my chest as I close the distance between us. "No cameras. No audience. No reason to pretend."
His eyes drop to my lips, then back to my eyes. "Lena?—"
"Just us," I whisper. "Real or not real. Your call."
For a heartbeat, I think he'll back away. Then his hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheek with a gentleness that makes my breath catch.
"This is a bad idea," he murmurs, even as he leans closer.
"Probably." I tilt my face up to his. "I don't care."
His lips meet mine with none of the careful restraint of our staged kisses. This is hungry, urgent, months of tension finally breaking. His hands tangle in my damp hair as mine grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. He tastes like tea and rain and something essentially Max—real and uncomplicated in a way nothing in my life has been lately.
We stumble backward until my spine meets the exposed brick wall. The impact should hurt, but I barely notice, too consumed by the heat of his mouth on mine, his hands tracing paths of fire along my sides.
"This doesn't change anything," he breathes against my neck as his lips trail down to my collarbone. "Still temporary. Still an arrangement."
"Shut up," I gasp, tugging his hair to bring his mouth back to mine. "Just shut up and kiss me."
He complies, lifting me effortlessly so my legs can wrap around his waist, supporting me against the wall. The strength in his arms, the solid warmth of his body pressed against mine—it's overwhelming, intoxicating.
"Bedroom," I manage between kisses.
He carries me down the hall without breaking contact, my fingers working at the buttons of his henley, desperate to feel skin against skin. We tumble onto his bed in a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothes, his weight a delicious pressure above me.
"Are you sure?" he asks, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. Even now, with desire darkening his gaze, he's checking, making sure.
"Yes." I pull him back down to me. "I want this. I want you."
His borrowed t-shirt is the first casualty, pulled over my head and tossed aside. His eyes darken as they take in my bare skin, his hands following his gaze with reverent exploration. My own hands aren't idle, pushing his shirt up and over his shoulders, revealing the toned chest and arms I've felt but never seen.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, and the simple honesty in his voice melts something frozen inside me.
There's no performance now, no calculated moves or camera-ready angles. Just the raw, honest need between two people who've been denying their attraction for too long. He kisses his way down my body with an attention to detail that makes me arch against him, my fingers clutching the sheets as his mouth and hands find places that make me gasp his name.
When he finally enters me, the sensation is overwhelming—not just physically, but emotionally. His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mingling as we find a rhythm together. His eyes never leave mine, a connection more intimate than the physical one joining us.
"Max," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for.
He seems to understand anyway, his movements becoming more urgent, his hands cradling my face as if I'm something precious. When release claims me, it's with his name on my lips, the sound swallowed by his kiss as he follows me over the edge.
Afterward, we lie tangled in his sheets, the rain still pattering against the windows, creating a cocoon of sound around us. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, neither of us speaking, afraid perhaps to break whatever spell has temporarily lifted the barriers between us.
"So," he finally says, his voice rough. "That happened."
I laugh softly, the sound slightly shaky. "Yes, it did."
"Not very professional of us."
"No." I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. "Do you regret it?"
He considers this, his gaze traveling over my face as if memorizing it. "No," he says finally. "But I'm not sure what it means."
It's the question I've been avoiding since his lips first touched mine. What does this mean? Is it just physical release after weeks of tension? Is it a complication in an already complicated arrangement? Or is it something more—something real emerging from the performance?
"It doesn't have to mean anything," I say carefully, watching his reaction. "If you don't want it to."
Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment? Relief? I can't tell. "Is that what you want? For it to mean nothing?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications I'm not ready to face. The truth is, I don't know what I want anymore. When this arrangement began, the boundaries seemed clear. Now they're hopelessly blurred, and I'm not sure I want to redraw them.
"I want..." I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. "I want to not overthink this right now. Can we do that? Just be here, together, without analyzing what it means for tomorrow?"
He captures my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm that sends shivers down my spine. "We can try."
It's not a solution, not really. Tomorrow, we'll still have an arrangement with an expiration date. We'll still have appearances to make, a narrative to maintain. But tonight, in the shelter of his apartment with the rain creating a private world around us, we can pretend that nothing exists beyond this bed, these sheets, this moment.
So I do. I silence the voice in my head that's already catastrophizing, already planning damage control. I let myself sink back into his arms, into the warmth and solidity of him. Let myself believe, just for tonight, that this might be something real—something that exists beyond the carefully curated images we present to the world.
But as his breathing deepens toward sleep and I lie awake, watching the shadows play across his face, I can't quite silence the whisper of fear. Because if this is real—if what I'm feeling for Max is genuine—then when our arrangement ends, I won't just be losing a fake boyfriend. I'll be losing something I never expected to find.
And I'm not sure my carefully reconstructed image can survive another public heartbreak.