Chapter 7 #2
My name slips between us—familiar now, too intimate for strangers, too brittle for friends.
I keep my spine straight, arms folded so tightly my fingernails leave crescents in my sleeves.
“Two minutes,” I remind him, though my ribs already feel cracked from holding anger and something more fragile underneath.
He nods. A deep breath lifts his shoulders, then drops them in defeat. “I owe you an apology that will probably take more than two minutes, but I’ll try.”
I wait, forcing stillness while my heart ricochets off bone.
“I lied,” he begins, voice steady but scratch-rough.
“Not because it was funny. Not because I think women are toys. I lied because the second I saw you on the photo, I recognized you from the ball. I remembered how it felt Saturday night when someone talked to me like a person, not a picture in a magazine.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw.
“I wanted to stay that person for a little longer.”
Heat prickles behind my eyes—anger, yes, but laced with reluctant understanding. “So you decided honesty was optional? That I’d never figure it out?”
“No,” he says, and the word sounds like it hurts his throat. “I told myself I’d explain at the right moment. Then the elevator happened and the right moment turned into a mess. I panicked, Nora. That’s not an excuse; it’s the pathetic truth.”
The memory of darkness, his hands, my legs around his waist, slams into me. I burn with humiliation—and with a horrible ghost of desire.
He notices, winces. “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have let it get so far. Should’ve—”
“Should’ve told me your real name,” I finish, words trembling.
“Yes.” He grips the back of the empty chair, knuckles whitening.
“You deserve the whole truth. So here it is: My name is Maxwell Damien Archer Donovan. My team and I chose the stage name Max when I was seventeen. I volunteered for logistics duty under “Matt” just so I could be on-site—and see you again. Everything else—my love of books, the pull I felt towards you—that was real.”
The sincerity in his eyes sears; I want to look away, but something pins me there. Maybe it’s masochism, maybe it’s the need to verify if sincerity can coexist with lying.
He shifts closer, voice low. “You asked what scares me in that elevator. Spotlights do. They expose everything I never meant to sell—my worst days, the rehab year, the people I love. So I keep everyone at arm’s length. I’m sorry you got dragged into the fallout anyway.”
Silence pools. Coffee machines hiss in the background like distant applause that’s turned sarcastic. The apology hangs between us, fragile as rice paper.
He swallows. “Vivienne briefed you?”
“Three dates, staged photos, money for the roof. Congratulations—you bought yourself a librarian.”
Pain flashes through his eyes, gone in a blink. “I didn’t buy you. I’m trying to protect you from Jake.”
I force down the lump lodged in my throat. “You’re asking me to pretend what we have is wholesome and public, when in reality it’s just a mess.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I’m asking for a chance to protect the work you love and fix what I wrecked.”
His desperation is palpable. Beneath my anger, something softer stirs, traitorous.
I clear my throat. “For the first date pick something low-key. I’m not exactly comfortable in big crowds.”
He exhales, relief and regret twined. “I promise.”
“And, Max—no more masks. If we’re going to partner on this, I need the whole truth from here on out.”
He manages a small, rueful smile. “Understood.”
I glance at the clock; two minutes have stretched into five. “We’re done here.” I reach for my tote.
He backs away but pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, the realest moment of my year was in that elevator before the lights came on.”
The bell jingles as he slips out. I watch his silhouette retreat—a dark shape swallowed by the bright sunlight. My chest feels scraped raw, but under the sting is a flicker—dangerous, undeniable—that maybe real moments can exist even when wrapped in lies.
Three dates, I remind myself. Boundaries. Funding. Then I reclaim my quiet life, repaired roof and unbroken dignity.
But as the wind whips hair across my face and the traffic burble drowns stray thoughts, one unwanted question settles at the back of my mind: What if the pretend kisses feel exactly like the real ones?
***
The clock on my phone reads 1:42 a.m.
I should be asleep. The rational, responsible part of me wants to be asleep.
But rationality flew out the window the second I typed Max Donovan into the search bar.
I’m curled up on my couch, wearing fuzzy socks and a ratty sweatshirt, the glow from my laptop screen painting everything in soft blue light.
The search results load.
And my jaw drops.
“Max Donovan Net Worth: $130 Million and Rising.”
“Frontman for Storm & Silence Arrested in Prague: What Really Happened?”
“Max Donovan’s Dating History: From Heiresses to Hollywood’s Wildest Nights.”
“Ten Times Max Donovan Looked Too Hot to Handle (And We Didn’t Handle It Well).”
“The Eyes. The Voice. The Chaos: Why We Can’t Quit Max Donovan.”
Oh. My. God.
I click on the last one, because I’m a masochist.
The article opens with a high-def, shirtless photo of him from some Rolling Stone shoot. He’s leaning against a wall, tattoos on full display, eyes like twin lightning bolts of sin, and his smirk? Criminal.
I clutch the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
He kissed me like he meant it.
Twice.
I scroll, breath catching as the article dives into his infamous dating history, his year-long disappearance from the spotlight, and how his last album—Reckless Heart—smashed records and, according to one very professional journalist, “broke a few ovaries too.”
I keep scrolling. One article turns into three.
“Max Donovan Spotted Leaving Hotel with Supermodel.”
“Ten Lyrics That Prove He’s a Secret Softie.”
None of it makes this feel like an easy business transaction.
There are thirst posts. Fan forums. A Reddit thread titled:
“Max Donovan Thigh Appreciation Society.”
I slam the laptop shut.Then I open it again. Because I have no self-control.
The next tab I click is a YouTube video. Him. On stage. Mic in hand, voice rough velvet and fire. It’s a song I don’t know, but the lyrics hit like a freight train.
I built a home in the wrong place
Tried to fill it with noise and neon grace
But silence came anyway—
And I stayed, and I stayed, and I stayed…
I press a hand to my chest. It physically aches.
Another article mentions his stint in rehab. How he came back clean and quieter. One interviewer wrote, “He doesn’t self-destruct on camera anymore, but there’s a fire behind those eyes that says he still knows how.”
I think of the way he looked at me at the masquerade. Like he’d already decided I was real in a world full of fake.
I think of his mouth on mine.
I know I should feel furious.
Instead, all I feel is overwhelm—and a quiet, aching longing for something I can’t quite name.
I whisper into the dark, “What the hell did I get myself into?”