Chapter 10
TEN
Max
The terrace air hits my lungs like salvation after the stuffiness of the ballroom. I loosen my bow tie with one finger, watching Lena as she moves to the stone balustrade, her silver dress catching moonlight like she's been dipped in starlight. We're alone out here, the sounds of the gala muffled behind heavy doors, and I'm acutely aware of how dangerous that is after what just happened on the dance floor. Whatever line we've been carefully maintaining these past weeks—the one between performance and reality—is blurring beyond recognition. And the worst part? I'm not sure I want to redraw it.
"Victoria seemed pleased," Lena says, her back still to me, voice carefully neutral. "I think we've secured the contract."
"Mission accomplished, then." I move to stand beside her, careful to leave space between us. The city sprawls before us, a glittering carpet of lights that can't compete with the woman next to me. "You'll get your big sponsorship deal."
"We will," she corrects, finally turning to face me. "It's for both of us. That's what she wants—the couple."
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Right. The perfect Instagram couple. Authentic and aspirational."
"Max—"
"Don't worry, I'm not going to sabotage your deal." I lean against the balustrade, studying her face in the dim light. "I committed to seeing this through, and I will."
She exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Thank you."
A silence falls between us, not exactly uncomfortable but charged with everything we're not saying. I can still feel the phantom press of her body against mine as we danced, can still smell her perfume—something expensive and floral that somehow manages to smell uniquely like her beneath the designer notes.
"What happened in there?" I finally ask, unable to leave it unaddressed.
"What do you mean?" Her eyes skitter away from mine, focusing on some distant point in the city skyline.
"On the dance floor. That wasn't just a performance."
She fidgets with her bracelet, a nervous gesture I've come to recognize. "We got caught up in the competition. The music, the atmosphere…it was all very conducive to getting into character."
"Character," I repeat, tasting the bitterness of the word. "Right."
"What do you want me to say, Max?" There's a flash of something like vulnerability in her eyes before it's quickly masked. "That I'm confused? That I don't know what's real and what's performance anymore? That would be extremely unprofessional."
"Heaven forbid we be unprofessional," I mutter, running a hand through my hair and likely ruining whatever styling product was holding it in place. "Like that night at my apartment wasn't unprofessional."
She flinches slightly. "I thought we weren't talking about that."
"We're not. We're never talking about anything real, are we? Just sticking to the script."
The hurt that flashes across her face makes me immediately regret my words. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair," I sigh, the anger draining as quickly as it came. "Look, I'm not trying to make this harder. I just…I need to understand what we're doing here."
She moves closer, close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the slight smudge of her otherwise perfect lipstick. "We're doing exactly what we agreed to do. Creating a narrative. Playing our parts."
"And when the cameras are off? When there's no audience?" I gesture to the empty terrace around us. "What are we doing then?"
Her lips part, but whatever she's about to say is cut off by the sound of the terrace doors opening. A laughing couple stumbles outside, clearly seeking their own private moment. They spot us and pause awkwardly.
"Sorry," the woman giggles, clearly a few champagnes in. "Didn't realize this spot was taken."
"We were just leaving," Lena says smoothly, her social mask sliding back into place. She turns to me, her smile perfect and utterly false. "Shall we, darling? I think Victoria will be looking for us."
I nod stiffly, offering my arm like the dutiful boyfriend I'm supposed to be. She takes it, her touch light enough that I can barely feel her through the layers of my tuxedo jacket.
We reenter the ballroom, the wall of sound and heat a stark contrast to the calm of the terrace. Victoria is nowhere in sight, but Lena maintains her grip on my arm, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease.
"The south terrace Victoria mentioned is probably this way," she says, leading us down a less populated corridor off the main ballroom.
The hallway is dimly lit, the sounds of the gala fading with each step we take. Ornate sconces cast pools of golden light at regular intervals, lending the space an intimate, almost secretive atmosphere.
"Are you sure this is the right way?" I ask, glancing around at the clearly private area.
"No," she admits, slowing her pace. "But I needed to get away from all those people for a minute."
She stops beside a tall window, moonlight streaming in to illuminate half her face, leaving the other half in shadow. The dichotomy feels symbolic somehow—the public and private Lena, the performance and the reality, perpetually divided.
"I don't know what we're doing either," she says quietly, answering my earlier question. "This whole arrangement has become more complicated than I anticipated."
I step closer, drawn to her honesty like a moth to flame. "Because of what happened at my apartment?"
"Because of everything." Her eyes meet mine, unguarded for once. "The way you defended me to my father. How you remember details I mention once in passing. The way you look at me sometimes when you think I don't notice."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "How do I look at you?"
"Like you see me." Her voice drops to nearly a whisper. "Not the Instagram version. Not the brand. Just…me."
The confession hangs between us, fragile and potent. I reach out, unable to stop myself, and brush a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes flutter closed at the contact, her breath hitching audibly.
"Lena—"
The sound of footsteps and voices approaching from around the corner interrupts whatever I was about to confess. Lena's eyes fly open, panic flickering across her features.
"We shouldn't be here," she whispers urgently. "This area's probably restricted."
The voices grow louder—security, maybe, or hotel staff. Without thinking, I back Lena against the wall beside the window, shielding her with my body. Her eyes widen in surprise, her hands automatically coming up to rest against my chest.
"What are you?—"
"Cover story," I murmur, leaning closer. "Couple sneaking away for a private moment. More believable than trespassers."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by something darker, more primal. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me infinitesimally closer.
"Convenient excuse," she breathes, her gaze dropping to my mouth.
"Entirely practical," I agree, already closing the distance between us.
The first brush of her lips against mine is tentative, questioning—nothing like the desperate heat of that night in my apartment. My hands find her waist, steadying her or myself, I'm not sure which. For one heartbeat, two, the kiss remains gentle, almost chaste.
Then the footsteps round the corner, and Lena makes a small sound in the back of her throat, her arms sliding up to circle my neck as she presses herself fully against me. The kiss transforms in an instant, deepening from cautious to consuming.
I'm vaguely aware of a voice—"Sorry, sir, ma'am, this area is off-limits"—and Lena breaking the kiss long enough to murmur a breathless apology. The footsteps retreat, giving us privacy or plausible deniability or both.
We should stop now. The excuse is gone; there's no audience to perform for. But when Lena's eyes meet mine, dark and wanting, neither of us moves away.
"They're gone," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
"I know," she replies, her fingers sliding into my hair, pulling me back down to her.
This time, there's nothing tentative about the kiss. Her mouth opens under mine, inviting a deeper exploration that I'm helpless to resist. I press her more firmly against the wall, one hand sliding down to grip her hip, the other cradling the back of her neck. She tastes like champagne and desire, a heady combination that makes my head spin.
Her hands aren't idle, moving from my hair to my shoulders, down my back, pulling me impossibly closer as if she's trying to eliminate any space between us. The silver fabric of her dress is cool and slippery beneath my palms, a stark contrast to the burning heat of her skin where my fingers find the low back of her gown.
"Max," she gasps against my mouth when we briefly part for air. It's not a performance, not calculated for effect—just my name, raw and wanting, torn from somewhere honest inside her.
I trail kisses along her jaw, down the elegant column of her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips. Her head falls back against the wall, offering more access that I greedily take, nipping gently at the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. The small, breathless sounds she makes drive me wild, eroding what little restraint I have left.
Her leg hooks around mine, pulling our lower bodies into alignment that makes us both groan. My hand finds the exposed skin of her thigh where her dress has ridden up, and I trace patterns on the soft flesh, each circle bringing me higher until she's trembling against me.
"We shouldn't—" she begins, even as her hands tug my shirt free from my waistband, seeking skin-to-skin contact.
"Probably not," I agree, capturing her lower lip between my teeth, drawing a shudder from her. "Want to stop?"
"God, no," she breathes, her nails scraping lightly down my back, igniting nerve endings I didn't know I had.
I slide my hand higher, finding the edge of delicate underwear, tracing the lace with one finger. She arches into the touch, her eyes half-closed, lips swollen from my kisses. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—Lena Carter completely undone, the carefully constructed persona nowhere in sight.
She pulls me back to her mouth, the kiss turning desperate, almost frantic. I press my thigh between her legs, giving her something to grind against, and she makes a broken sound into my mouth that nearly shatters my control entirely.
"I want you," I confess against her ear, beyond caring about the implications, about our arrangement, about anything but the woman in my arms. "Right now. Right here."
"Yes," she agrees, her hands fumbling with my belt. "Please, Max."
The distant sound of laughter jolts us back to reality—not close, but a reminder that we're in a public hallway at a high-profile charity event, not the privacy of my apartment. We freeze, both breathing hard, the moment of madness receding enough for reason to reassert itself.
Slowly, reluctantly, I step back, creating space between us. Lena immediately smooths down her dress, though her hands are visibly shaking. I tuck my shirt back in, trying to make myself look less like someone who was seconds away from taking a woman against a wall in the Plaza Hotel.
"That was..." I trail off, not sure how to categorize what just happened.
"A convincing performance," she finishes for me, not quite meeting my eyes as she fixes her lipstick with a practiced touch. "For our audience."
The excuse is paper-thin—the security guard was gone within seconds, couldn't have seen the way she trembled under my hands, the way my name sounded on her lips, the promises we whispered against each other's skin.
But I recognize the lifeline she's offering. A way to pretend this was just another part of our arrangement, not something real that would force us to confront the growing complication between us.
"Very convincing," I agree, hating myself a little for the cowardice, for taking the easy way out. "You're quite the actress."
Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—before it's carefully masked. "As are you the actor." She checks her reflection in a compact mirror, erasing all evidence of our encounter with efficiency that would be impressive if it didn't feel like she was erasing me in the process. "We should get back. Victoria will be looking for us."
I nod, running a hand through my thoroughly disheveled hair in a futile attempt to fix it. "After you."
She hesitates, looking like she wants to say something more, but ultimately turns and walks back toward the ballroom, her posture perfect, her gait steady as if she wasn't just falling apart in my arms.
I follow a few steps behind, watching the graceful movement of her hips in that silver dress, remembering how they felt beneath my hands, how she pressed against me with unmistakable need. My body still thrums with unfulfilled desire, my lips still taste of her, but already she's rebuilding the walls between us, brick by careful brick.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of small talk and performative smiles. Victoria finds us, cooing over our "natural chemistry" as her photographer captures candid shots of us looking at each other across champagne flutes. Lena plays her part flawlessly, the consummate professional, while I struggle to focus on anything but the phantom feel of her skin beneath my fingertips.
When it's finally time to leave, we share a car in silence that vibrates with everything we're not saying. The space between us on the backseat might as well be miles for all that either of us attempts to bridge it.
"Well," she says as the car pulls up to her building. "That was a successful evening."
"Very," I agree, the word tasting like ash. "You'll get your contract."
She nods, hand already on the door handle. "Thank you for tonight. For everything."
"Just playing my part," I echo her earlier words, unable to keep the bitterness entirely from my voice.
She pauses, finally meeting my eyes directly for the first time since our encounter in the hallway. "Max, about what happened?—"
"Don't worry about it," I cut her off, not wanting to hear whatever carefully crafted explanation she's prepared. "It was convincing. That's all that matters, right?"
A flash of something—hurt? anger? frustration?—crosses her face before the mask slips back into place. "Right," she agrees, her voice soft. "Goodnight, Max."
"Goodnight, Lena."
I watch her disappear into her building, the silver dress catching the streetlight one last time before she's gone. Only then do I allow myself to slump back against the seat, the full weight of my predicament crashing down on me.
The bet with Ryan seems like a distant memory now, a juvenile game started before I understood the stakes. Because despite all my best efforts, despite knowing better, despite the artifice of our arrangement, I'm dangerously close to losing—not just the bet, but myself in the process.
The worst part isn't that we kissed, or even that we pretended it was just for show afterward. It's that for a brief, incandescent moment in that hallway, when her eyes met mine and her body pressed against me without reservation, everything felt real. And I'm no longer sure how to tell the difference between the performance and the truth—or if there's any difference left at all.