Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Max
Of all the bizarre experiences in my life—and there have been many, including that time in Cleveland when our drummer got arrested for serenading a police horse—sitting in a glass-walled conference room discussing how I should propose to my girlfriend takes the cake. Except Lena isn't just my girlfriend. She's my fake-girlfriend-turned-real-girlfriend who I'm now going to fake-propose to for a beauty campaign that's paying us to pretend to be what we actually are. If that sentence makes your head hurt, imagine living it. I'm nodding along as Victoria Ellis from Luminous Beauty gestures animatedly at a mood board featuring disgustingly happy couples in various states of engagement bliss, while Tori takes notes and Lena maintains her perfect professional smile. Meanwhile, I'm fighting the urge to laugh hysterically at the cosmic joke that is my life.
"The 'Forever Luminous' collection launch needs a centerpiece moment," Victoria is saying, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against an image of a woman crying photogenically while extending a ring-adorned hand. "Something that embodies the journey of lasting love that our brand represents."
"A proposal," Tori translates unnecessarily, her eyes gleaming with marketing possibilities. "Captured authentically but professionally."
"Exactly!" Victoria beams at her. "We want it to feel genuine, spontaneous—but also perfectly photographed from multiple angles." She turns her attention to me. "Max, this is where you come in. Your proposal to Lena will be the cornerstone of our campaign."
I glance at Lena, who's watching me with an expression I've learned to read over the past months—outwardly composed, inwardly amused. Since our confession and decision to make our relationship real, we've developed a private language of looks and subtle gestures. This one says, *Can you believe this? Play along.*
"I'm honored," I say dryly. "Though I'm not sure how spontaneous it'll be if we're planning it in advance with a professional photography team."
Victoria waves this concern away like an annoying gnat. "That's the art of modern romance, Max! Authenticity with optimal lighting."
"We're thinking an outdoor location," Tori interjects, pulling up images on her tablet. "Sunset at Brooklyn Bridge Park, perhaps? The city skyline provides a stunning backdrop."
"And we'll have a subtle photography team positioned to capture every moment," Victoria adds. "Plus a videographer for social content."
"Don't forget the drone shots," says the marketing director whose name I've already forgotten.
"Naturally," Victoria agrees. "We want aerial coverage of the moment."
"So just the two of us and a small army of cameras," I mutter.
Lena's foot finds mine under the table, a gentle pressure. Warning or solidarity, I'm not sure.
"What about a ring?" she asks, smoothly redirecting. "Since this is for the campaign, should it be one of the Luminous Beauty collaboration pieces?"
The question launches a fifteen-minute discussion about jewelry aesthetics, including a PowerPoint presentation on "engagement ring trends that photograph well." My attention drifts as they debate princess cuts versus cushion cuts, white gold versus platinum. The whole scenario is surreal—planning a fake proposal for a real relationship that we're pretending is fake for public consumption.
Two months ago, after that afternoon in my apartment when Lena finally admitted her feelings were real, we've been living a strange double life. In private, we're a normal couple—well, as normal as a bartender/former musician and a social media influencer can be. We argue about takeout choices, binge-watch shows together, learn each other's quirks and habits. In public, we perform a slightly more polished version of the same relationship, always aware of the cameras, the contractual obligations, the narrative we're selling to her followers and Luminous Beauty customers.
And now they want me to propose. To create the ultimate relationship milestone as content.
"What do you think, Max?" Victoria's voice snaps me back to the present.
"About?" I ask, unabashedly lost.
"The timing. We're thinking three weeks from now, to coincide with the collection's soft launch."
I nod like this makes perfect sense. "Three weeks. Got it."
"That gives you enough time to prepare something special," Tori says meaningfully. "Something that reflects your relationship journey."
Our relationship journey. Right. The one where we met at a bar, made a business arrangement, accidentally fell for each other, slept together, denied our feelings, then finally admitted the truth while maintaining the public fiction that started it all. Not exactly the stuff of Hallmark cards.
"I'll come up with something suitably romantic," I promise, catching Lena's eye. A flash of something—vulnerability, maybe—crosses her face before her professional mask resettles.
The meeting wraps up with discussions of hashtags and embargo timing. As we exit the Luminous Beauty offices, Lena's hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing with practiced ease that no longer feels performed.
"Well, that was surreal," she says once we're in the elevator, mercifully alone.
"Understatement of the century." I pull her closer, needing the physical connection to ground me. "How do you feel about your impending fake engagement?"
She looks up at me, her expression softening. "Honestly? It's weird. But also..." She trails off, seeming unable to find the right words.
"Also?"
"Also not entirely terrible?" She winces, as if the admission pains her. "Is that crazy?"
"If it is, we're both crazy." I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "But just to be clear, when I really propose someday, there won't be a photography team or drone shots or hashtag strategy meetings."
She stiffens slightly in my arms. "When you really propose?"
The elevator doors open before I can backpedal from the implication, saving me from digging the hole deeper. We step into the lobby, immediately switching to our public personas—still affectionate but more camera-ready, more conscious of potential eyes.
"So," Lena says as we exit the building, "we need to plan your proposal."
"My fake proposal," I clarify, perhaps unnecessarily.
"Right." She flags down a taxi. "But it needs to look real. Feel real."
"I'm aware of the irony," I say dryly as we slide into the backseat.
She gives the driver her address, then turns to me with the focused expression I've come to know means she's in planning mode. "We should brainstorm. Figure out what kind of proposal would be both photogenic and believable for us as a couple."
"You mean what kind of proposal would Max Donovan, smitten bartender, plan for Lena Carter, lifestyle influencer?"
"Exactly." She pulls out her phone, already creating a notes page. "Something that fits our public narrative but feels authentic."
I watch her, equal parts amused and unsettled by how easily she compartmentalizes. "You're really going to strategize this like a content campaign?"
She glances up, her expression softening. "I know it's weird. But this is my world, Max. Planning, optimizing, creating moments that resonate with an audience." She reaches for my hand. "It doesn't make what's between us any less real."
"I know." I squeeze her fingers, acknowledging the strange dance we're doing. "So what's your vision for this perfectly orchestrated romantic milestone?"
"Traditional but with a twist," she says, warming to the topic. "Something that honors the conventional aspects people expect—down on one knee, heartfelt speech, ring—but with unique elements that make it distinctly us."
"Like what?" I'm genuinely curious now, wondering how she sees us as a couple.
"That's where you come in." She nudges my shoulder. "What would make it uniquely Max?"
I ponder this as the taxi navigates midtown traffic. What would make a proposal uniquely me? More importantly, what would make it meaningful to Lena—not Influencer Lena, but the real woman who's afraid of geese and can't whistle?
"Let me think about it," I say finally. "If I'm going to plan a fake proposal, I want to do it right."
She studies my face, seeming to understand the complexity beneath my casual tone. "Okay. But remember we need to finalize the plan soon for the photography team to prepare."
"The romance of modern relationships," I quip, but there's no real bite to it. We're both playing the game we agreed to, strange as it may be.
The next three weeks pass in a blur of planning meetings and preparation. Luminous Beauty selects a specific area of Brooklyn Bridge Park for optimal sunset lighting and city backdrop. A photographer walks us through the positioning, the ring handoff, the best angle for Lena's reaction. A social media coordinator discusses the timing of posts and the content strategy for the "journey to yes."
Through it all, I'm developing my own plan—one that adheres to their requirements while incorporating elements that will surprise Lena, make her genuinely laugh, remind her that even in this orchestrated moment, there's something real at the core.
The day of the proposal dawns clear and bright, promising the perfect sunset Victoria has demanded. Lena is whisked away early for hair, makeup, and styling, while I'm left to prepare on my own, with instructions to arrive at the park by 5 PM for final coordination.
I dress in the outfit selected by the Luminous Beauty stylist—dark jeans, crisp white shirt, navy blazer that's casual enough to seem authentic but polished enough for campaign photos. The ring—a cushion-cut diamond in a platinum setting—sits heavy in my pocket, on loan from a jeweler who's partnering with the campaign.
But there's another package tucked in my other pocket, something that wasn't in any of the planning meetings.
When I arrive at the park, it's immediately clear this is no intimate moment. A small army of production staff mill about, trying to look inconspicuous among the regular park-goers. Tori spots me and hurries over, clipboard in hand.
"There you are! Lena's in position by the waterfront. The photographers are set up, the videographer is ready, and we have a small crowd of 'random bystanders' who are actually influencers ready to capture the moment for their platforms."
"Of course we do," I mutter.
"This is going to be perfect," she assures me, oblivious to my discomfort. "Just follow the plan, hit your mark, and make it look natural."
"Natural. With two dozen people watching and recording. Got it."
She squeezes my arm. "You've got this.”
Before I can respond, she's ushering me toward the designated proposal spot. And then I see Lena, standing by the railing overlooking the East River, the Manhattan skyline a perfect backdrop behind her. She's wearing a flowing sundress in a pale blue that catches the late afternoon light, her hair styled in loose waves that move gently in the breeze. Even knowing she's been positioned there, even aware of the cameras, I'm struck by how beautiful she is—and how nervous she looks when she spots me.
Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation fades. Yes, this proposal is staged. Yes, there are cameras and production assistants and a social media strategy. But the woman waiting for me is real. What I feel for her is real. And somehow, I'm going to make this moment real too, despite everything.
I approach her with measured steps, conscious of the cameras but focusing solely on her face, on the way her eyes soften when they meet mine.
"Hi," she says softly when I reach her. "Ready for your big performance?"
"Something like that." I take her hands in mine, stepping close enough that our conversation can be private despite the audience. "I'm going off-script a bit."
Alarm flickers across her face. "Max, we rehearsed this. The photographers are set up for?—"
"Trust me," I interrupt gently. "Just go with it."
Before she can protest further, I drop to one knee, right on the mark the director indicated. So far, so conventional. Lena composes her features into expectant joy, camera-ready but with a question in her eyes.
"Lena Carter," I begin, loud enough for the microphones to catch. "These past months have been unexpected, to say the least."
A small, genuine smile touches her lips at the understatement.
"When you walked into my bar that night, I had no idea how completely you would change my life." This part is true, at least. "You've challenged me, surprised me, and made me see the world differently."
I reach into my pocket, but instead of pulling out the luxury jewelry box with the borrowed ring, I extract a small plastic vending machine capsule. Confusion crosses Lena's face as I hold it up.
"Before I ask the big question, I have a smaller one," I continue, opening the capsule to reveal a cheap plastic ring with a comically large fake gem. "Will you promise never to make me retake our proposal photos because the lighting isn't perfect?"
A burst of laughter escapes her—real, unfiltered, caught completely off-guard. "What are you doing?" she whispers, eyes dancing with mingled amusement and confusion.
"Improvising," I whisper back, before raising my voice again. "Will you vow to occasionally eat ice cream directly from the container without staging it for Instagram?"
Her laughter grows, tears of mirth gathering in her eyes. "Max..."
"Will you solemnly swear to continue hiding behind me when we encounter geese in the park, even though it ruins your dignified image?"
Now she's truly laughing, one hand covering her mouth, the other still held in mine. Around us, I can sense the confusion of the production team, the photographers rapidly adjusting to capture this unexpected moment.
"And finally," I say, setting aside the joke ring and pulling out the official one, speaking low enough that only she can hear, "will you agree to pretend to agree to marry me, while actually considering the possibility that someday, when there are no cameras or contracts or content strategies, you might want to do it for real?"
The laughter fades from her face, replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable. She understands what I'm really asking—acknowledging the performance while offering a glimpse of genuine intention, a promise for the future.
"Yes," she says, loud enough for the microphones but soft enough to feel intimate. "To all of it."
I slide the ring onto her finger, then stand and pull her into my arms. The kiss is careful, conscious of our audience, but there's real emotion behind it. When we part, she whispers against my ear, "That wasn't in the script."
"The best parts never are," I murmur back, holding her close as cameras click around us, capturing a moment that's somehow both completely manufactured and utterly sincere.
"The plastic ring was a nice touch," she says with a small, private smile.
"I thought you'd appreciate the symbolism."
The production team swarms us then, congratulating, directing, positioning us for more photos. Victoria is ecstatic, declaring it "even better than planned" and "authentically quirky." Tori gives me a knowing look and a subtle thumbs up.
Later, after the official photos are taken, after we've played the happy newly-engaged couple for what feels like hours, we finally escape to a car waiting to take us back to her apartment. As the door closes, shutting out the world, Lena collapses against me with a sigh that's half exhaustion, half laughter.
"A vending machine ring," she says, shaking her head. "Where did you even get that?"
"Grocery store. The kind with the little toys in plastic bubbles." I pull her closer, relishing having her to myself again. "I wanted something to make you really laugh. To remind you that even in this completely ridiculous scenario, there's something real between us."
She studies my face in the dim light of the car, her expression softening. "It worked." She holds up her hand, the expensive diamond catching the light. "This is for the campaign, for the photos, for everyone else."
"And the plastic one?" I ask, pulling it from my pocket where I'd stashed it after the official ring was in place.
"That one's just for us." She takes it, slipping it onto her right hand with a smile that reaches her eyes. "A reminder that someday..."
"When I really ask," I finish for her, "there won't be a production team or a content strategy or borrowed jewelry. Just us."
"Just us," she echoes, resting her head on my shoulder as the city passes by outside the window. "I think I'd like that."
"Me too." I press a kiss to her temple, marveling at the strange journey that brought us here—a fake relationship that became real, a staged proposal with genuine promise.
The plastic ring gleams ridiculously on her finger, a private joke, a secret truth in the midst of our public performance. And somehow, in this backward, upside-down relationship we've created, it's the fake ring that feels most real of all.