Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Lena
I stare at my reflection, oddly nervous about a date with a man who's seen me at my absolute worst—sick with food poisoning, tear-streaked after a brutal comment section, half-asleep with drool on my chin. Max has witnessed every unflattering version of Lena Carter that my Instagram followers will never see, yet here I am, second-guessing my outfit choice for the third time. The difference is that tonight isn't for the cameras or the content calendar or the Luminous Beauty campaign. Tonight is just for us—a real date with my fake-but-actually-real fiancé, who's picking me up in twenty minutes for what he mysteriously described as "an excursion into authenticity."
The jeans and oversized sweater I've settled on are a far cry from the carefully styled looks I wear for public consumption. My hair falls in its natural waves instead of the perfect curls my stylist creates, and my makeup is minimal—just tinted moisturizer, mascara, and a touch of lip balm. I look like me, but not the version three million followers think they know.
When Max and I first started this arrangement, I maintained my polished image even in private, a habit born from years of living life on display. The transition from performance to reality happened so gradually I barely noticed—a makeup-free morning here, unwashed hair there, until suddenly I realized I no longer felt the need to curate myself for an audience of one. Especially when that one seemed to prefer the unfiltered version anyway.
Our lives have developed a strange duality since admitting our feelings were real. In public, we play the picture-perfect influencer couple—attending events, posing for campaign photos, performing our relationship for likes and sponsorships. In private, we bicker about which takeout to order, binge trashy reality shows, and exist in a bubble of surprising normalcy that I've come to treasure more than any perfectly composed Instagram post.
The doorbell rings, sending an unexpected flutter through my stomach. It's ridiculous to be nervous. This is Max—the same Max who's seen my entire collection of embarrassing pajamas, who knows I secretly love cheesy 80s power ballads, who's held my hair back that time I mixed tequila and sushi (never again).
Yet when I open the door, the sight of him leaning against the wall with that crooked smile still makes my heart skip. He's dressed simply in dark jeans and a gray henley that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his hair its usual artful mess.
"Hi," I say, suddenly shy.
His eyes move over me, taking in the casual outfit, the natural face, the bare feet. "You look beautiful," he says, his voice low and sincere in a way that makes me believe him despite years of conditioning to think beauty requires effort and enhancement.
"I'm not even wearing shoes yet."
"Especially because of that." He steps inside, hands settling on my waist as he presses a soft kiss to my lips. "Ready for our adventure?"
"That depends. Does this adventure require hiking boots? Because if so, we need to seriously reassess our compatibility."
He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. "No hiking. Though you might want closed-toe shoes. And maybe grab a jacket—it gets cool at night."
"Still cryptic," I observe, slipping on sneakers and grabbing a denim jacket from the closet. "Should I be concerned that you're being so mysterious? Are you taking me to some underground fight club? A secret society initiation?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise." He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers with the easy familiarity we've developed. "Trust me?"
The question carries more weight than his light tone suggests. Trust doesn't come easily to me—not in this industry, not after Cameron, not with the constant awareness that everything can be performance. But with Max...
"Yes," I say simply. "I trust you."
His expression softens, understanding the significance of those three words. "Then let's go."
We take his car—a modest, slightly battered Subaru that's the antithesis of the sleek rideshare vehicles we usually use for public appearances. As we drive out of the city, Max connects his phone to the stereo, filling the car with the indie folk music he loves. I watch his profile as he drives, occasionally singing along quietly, completely unselfconscious in a way I still struggle to be.
"You never sing around me," I observe as he hits a particularly soulful note with surprising precision.
His hands flex slightly on the steering wheel. "Force of habit, I guess."
"You miss it, don't you? Music."
A silence stretches between us, broken only by the gentle guitar from the speakers. Finally, he nods. "Sometimes. But it's complicated."
"Because of what happened with your band?" I venture carefully, aware this is territory he rarely discusses.
"Among other things." His tone isn't closed off exactly, but it suggests now isn't the time. I let it go, respecting his boundaries as he respects mine.
As we leave the city behind, concrete gives way to trees, buildings to open spaces. After about an hour of driving, Max turns onto a narrow road that winds through dense woods, eventually revealing a small cabin nestled among the trees. It's rustic but charming, with a wide porch and warm lights glowing in the windows.
"Here we are," he announces, putting the car in park. "My uncle's place. He lets me use it sometimes when he's away."
"It's beautiful," I say, genuinely surprised. This peaceful retreat is nothing like the trendy, Instagram-worthy locations I usually frequent. There's not a single neon sign or artfully distressed brick wall in sight—just nature, solitude, and quiet.
"I thought we deserved one night completely off the grid," Max explains as he retrieves a duffel bag from the trunk. "No cameras, no expectations, no performance. Just us."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture touches me deeply. In my world, where everything is content, the gift of privacy is precious beyond measure.
Inside, the cabin is cozy and lived-in—comfortable furniture, bookshelves packed with well-worn paperbacks, a stone fireplace dominating one wall. It smells of pine and woodsmoke, earthy and real.
"I came up earlier to drop off supplies," Max explains, setting down his bag. "Hope you don't mind a home-cooked meal. I'm no gourmet chef, but I make a decent pasta."
"You cook?" I raise an eyebrow, amused by this revelation.
"Don't sound so surprised." He moves to the small kitchen area, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. "Some of us didn't grow up with personal chefs, Carter."
"I didn't have a personal chef," I protest, leaning against the counter to watch him work. "Just a mother who believed cooking was beneath her intellectual capabilities and a father who burned water."
"And now?"
"Now I can follow a recipe if absolutely necessary, but takeout is my love language." I steal a piece of bell pepper he's dicing. "Need help?"
"You can open the wine," he suggests, nodding toward a bottle on the counter. "Glasses in the cabinet above."
We fall into a comfortable rhythm—him cooking, me setting the table, both of us sharing stories from our days before we met. I tell him about my first disastrous sponsored post (a teeth whitening kit that temporarily turned my gums blue), and he counters with tales from early bar gigs. There's an ease between us here, away from the watchful eyes of followers and brand partners and competition.
Over dinner—a pasta dish that's surprisingly delicious—we talk about things we never discuss in public. My insecurities about my career longevity. His complicated relationship with his father, who never supported his music. Dreams and fears that don't fit neatly into Instagram captions or carefully crafted public narratives.
"Sometimes I wonder what I'd be doing if social media didn't exist," I admit as we clear the dishes together. "If I hadn't built this whole identity around being watched and liked."
"What did little Lena want to be?" he asks, genuinely curious.
"A marine biologist, if you can believe it." I laugh at his surprised expression. "I was obsessed with dolphins. Had my whole future planned out—I'd live on a boat, study migration patterns, wear practical khaki shorts."
"What happened to that dream?"
I shrug, the question more poignant than he realizes. "Reality? I discovered I get horribly seasick. And then Instagram happened, and it was easier. More immediate validation."
"You could still study dolphins," he says, completely serious. "Maybe not from a boat. But it's never too late to explore different paths."
"Says the man who walked away from his music career." The words slip out before I can catch them, and I immediately regret them. "I'm sorry. That was unfair."
To my surprise, he doesn't shut down. Instead, he takes my hand, leading me to the couch in front of the fireplace. "It's a fair point. I haven't exactly practiced what I'm preaching."
As he builds a fire, the warm glow illuminating his profile, I'm struck by how comfortable this feels—this unguarded conversation, this quiet evening in a place no one will photograph or comment on or double-tap. Just Max and me, being completely ourselves.
"I miss it," he says suddenly, sitting beside me as the fire catches. "Music. Playing. Creating. I miss it every day."
"Then why stop?"
He's quiet for a long moment, watching the flames. "Fear, mostly. We were on the verge of real success—that tour with Lunar Drive, interest from labels. And I panicked. Convinced myself I wasn't good enough, that I'd be exposed as a fraud the moment we stepped onto bigger stages."
"That doesn't sound like you." I curl into his side, his arm automatically wrapping around me.
"Doesn't it?" His laugh is soft, self-deprecating. "I'm pretty good at pretending confidence, Lena. You of all people should understand that."
The observation lands with gentle precision. Yes, I understand the gap between public persona and private doubts better than most.
"Sophie wanted me to push through, to take the chances being offered," he continues. "She couldn't understand why I'd walk away when we were so close. But the closer we got to 'making it,' the more paralyzed I felt. So I left the band, left her, left everything I'd been working toward. Took the bartending job as a temporary measure that somehow became permanent."
The vulnerability in his confession moves me deeply. Max, who always seems so secure in himself, sharing his deepest insecurities. It's a gift, this honesty—more meaningful than any public declaration or staged moment.
"Do you regret it?" I ask softly.
"Walking away from music? Sometimes. Walking away from Sophie?" He looks down at me, his gaze warm and certain. "Never. She was only with me because of what I was. Not who I was. Plus, if I hadn't left her, I wouldn't be here now. With you."
The simple statement settles in my chest, expanding with a warmth that makes it difficult to breathe. I reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "I'm glad you're here too."
His lips find mine, the kiss slow and deliberate, lacking the performative quality of our public affection or the desperate urgency of our previous private encounters. This is something else entirely—a silent conversation, an exchange of truths too tender for words.
My hands slide beneath his shirt, seeking the warmth of his skin, the solid reality of him. He responds in kind, fingers tracing the curve of my waist, the line of my spine, with a reverence that makes me shiver.
"Lena," he murmurs against my mouth, my name on his lips a question and answer both.
"Yes," I whisper, understanding what he's asking. "Yes."
There's no rush as we undress each other by firelight, each layer removed with care and attention. No cameras to perform for, no angles to consider, no thought of how this might look to anyone but us. Just the growing vulnerability of being truly seen—not the filtered, curated version I present to the world, but all of me, imperfections and all.
Max's hands explore me with patient thoroughness, as if memorizing every curve, every freckle, every place that makes my breath catch. I do the same, mapping the constellation of scars and moles across his shoulders, the ticklish spot just below his ribs, the sensitive hollow of his throat.
When he finally lowers his body to mine on the plush rug before the fire, the connection feels profound in a way our previous encounters haven't. Those were born of tension finally breaking, of desire too strong to deny. This is different—deliberate, mindful, a conscious choice to be completely present with each other.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, hovering above me, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "The real you. This you."
The words touch something deep inside me, a wound slowly healing. After years of being valued primarily for the image I project, being desired for my authentic self is both terrifying and liberating.
I guide him to me, gasping as our bodies join, the physical connection an echo of the emotional intimacy we've been building all evening. He moves with exquisite care, his gaze never leaving mine, creating a feedback loop of pleasure and connection that transcends the merely physical.
"Stay with me," he murmurs as my eyes start to flutter closed from the intensity. "I want to see you. All of you."
It's the most vulnerable request anyone has ever made of me—not just to share my body but to remain present, exposed, real. I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as waves of sensation build, as the careful rhythm of our bodies increases.
When release finally comes, it's with his name on my lips and tears in my eyes—not from sadness but from the overwhelming intimacy of being truly known, truly accepted. He follows moments later, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
Afterward, wrapped in a soft blanket he pulls from the couch, we lie tangled together before the dying fire. My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath my ear, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
"What are you thinking?" he asks after a comfortable silence.
"That I can't remember the last time I did something without considering how it would look online," I admit. "Without mentally composing a caption or thinking about the best angle."
"And now?"
"Now I'm just…here. With you." I tilt my face up to his. "It's nice. Liberating."
His smile is soft in the firelight. "That's how it should be."
"I know. I've just forgotten, somewhere along the way." I trace patterns on his chest, following the contours of muscle beneath smooth skin. "Everything became content—every meal, every outfit, every relationship. Even the authentic moments were carefully curated for maximum engagement."
"And now?" he prompts again.
"Now I have this." I gesture between us. "Something that's just ours. Something real amid all the performance."
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "That's all I've wanted from the beginning. The real Lena."
"Even with all her neuroses and geese phobias?"
"Especially those parts." His laugh rumbles through his chest beneath my ear. "They're my favorites."
We stay like that, talking softly as the fire burns down to embers, sharing secrets and dreams and fears that won't appear in any Instagram post or brand campaign. I tell him about the anxiety that sometimes keeps me awake at night, wondering if my entire career is built on shifting digital sand. He confesses his recurring dream of playing music again, how he still composes melodies in his head but rarely commits them to paper.
"Play for me sometime?" I ask, the request slipping out naturally.
He tenses slightly, then relaxes. "Maybe. Someday."
It's not a no, which feels like progress.
As the night deepens around us, our conversation drifts to the future—the real one, not the carefully plotted content calendar or campaign schedule.
"What happens when the Luminous Beauty contract ends?" I ask, voicing the question that's been hovering at the edges of my mind. "When we don't have to pretend anymore?"
"Then we stop pretending," he says simply. "We just be together, if that's what we both want."
"And if I still need to maintain a public image for my career?"
He considers this, his fingers still tracing patterns on my skin. "Then we figure it out. Together. But we always keep this—" he gestures to our entwined bodies, the intimate cocoon we've created "—sacred. Just for us."
The promise settles something restless inside me. All my life, especially since building my brand, I've existed in the gaze of others—performing, pleasing, projecting the version of myself most likely to be approved. The thought of having something genuine, something private amid the public performance, feels like taking a full breath after years of shallow breathing.
"I'd like that," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Something just for us."
Later, as we lie in the cabin's small bedroom, drowsiness pulling at the edges of consciousness, Max's arms secure around me, I realize something profound. This quiet, camera-free evening has been more satisfying than any viral post, any successful campaign, any strategically captured moment.
The plastic ring he gave me during our staged proposal sits on my right hand, catching moonlight from the window. Originally a joke, it's become something far more meaningful—a symbol of the real commitment growing beneath the public charade.
"Max?" I murmur, already half-asleep.
"Hmm?" His voice is equally drowsy, his breath warm against my hair.
"Thank you for tonight. For this." I can't quite articulate all I mean—for the privacy, for the honesty, for seeing value in the parts of me I've been trained to hide.
But he seems to understand anyway, pulling me closer as sleep claims us both. "Always, Lena. Always."
In the morning, I know we'll drive back to the city, back to our dual existence of public performance and private truth. There will be campaign events to attend, content to create, expectations to meet. But we'll carry this night with us—this genuine connection that exists outside the frame of carefully composed photos and strategic hashtags.
For now, though, I let myself drift into dreams, secure in the knowledge that what's growing between us is real, camera-ready or not.