“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.” Hegrips 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 mewantsto be asleep.
But rationality flew out the window the second I typedMax Donovaninto 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.
