My Fake Boyfriend Is a Billionaire

Chapter 4: "The Ex-Problem"

I’m at the venue, knees deep in place cards and a seating chart that refuses to behave, when I see him. He’s standing by the bar, talking to a vendor like they’re old friends. For a second I froze, because seeing him in a place where I’m supposed to be in control feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me.

“Lena?” he calls, like he’s surprised to find me alive and not waiting with a casserole. His voice carries.

My stomach does that stupid flip. I force a smile that’s practiced and neutral. “Ryan.”

He grins like we’re on the same page. “Hey. Small world, huh? I was just—thought I’d stop by. You looked busy, so I figured I’d help.”

Help. The word lands wrong. He’s never been helpful in a way that didn’t come with a lecture or a favor owed. He’s the guy who “helps” by rearranging your life into something he understands.

“Thanks,” I say, keeping my tone flat. “We’ve got it covered.”

He steps closer, like proximity will make this feel normal. “You look great. Busy, but great. How’s the wedding planning career? Still saving the world one centerpiece at a time?”

I glance at Priya, who’s across the room corralling a caterer into admitting they can, in fact, provide gluten-free options. Priya gives me a tiny, sympathetic look—half warning, half amusement. Chloe is nowhere in sight; she’s probably on her way with a plan and a bag of snacks. Claire is in the client’s ear, smoothing a crisis into a schedule. The room hums with people who expect me to be competent. I am competent. I am also not in the mood for nostalgia.

“Ryan,” I say again, firmer. “We’re not together.”

He blinks like I’ve said something shocking. “Right. Right. Of course. I know. I just—thought we could catch up. No pressure.”

“No pressure,” I echo. “But also no catch-ups. Not here. Not now.”

He laughs, the kind of laugh that’s meant to charm and diffuse. “You were always dramatic. Come on, one drink after this? For old times’ sake?”

I feel the old tug—the one that used to make me consider things I shouldn’t. It’s a reflex, a memory of easy nights and shared takeout. Then I remember the nights he showed up late, the mornings he left without saying goodbye, the way he treated my job like a hobby.

“No,” I say. “I don’t want to. Please don’t make this awkward.”

He shrugs like I’ve inconvenienced him. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll see you around then.”

He turns away, but not before giving me a look that says he expects me to miss him. I don’t. I feel a small, fierce relief that I said no.

A vendor—bless him—drops a stack of menus at my elbow and I seize the distraction like a lifeline. “Lena, can you check the vegetarian options?” he asks.

“On it,” I say, grateful for the work. I move away and start calling the caterer, my voice steady and professional. Work is a good place to hide; it’s where I can be useful without being vulnerable.

Later, during a lull, Ryan finds me again. This time he’s holding a drink and wearing the expression of someone who’s decided persistence is a strategy. “Look, I get it,” he says. “We broke up, but I still care about you. I just want to be friends.”

Friends. The word is soft and dangerous. “We’re not friends,” I say. “We were together. We lived together. That’s not the same as being friends.”

He frowns like I’ve complicated his simple plan. “You’re being harsh.”

“I’m being honest,” I say. “I don’t want mixed signals. I don’t want to be the person you text when you’re bored. I don’t want to be the person you call when you need something. I want boundaries.”

He opens his mouth, probably to say something about how he’s changed, how he’s learned, how the haircut was symbolic of growth. I cut him off. “If you want to be in my life, you have to respect my boundaries. If you can’t do that, then don’t be in my life at all.”

He looks taken aback, like I’ve asked him to do something impossible. “That’s cold,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say. “But it’s also necessary.”

He sips his drink and then, with the casual arrogance that used to make me forgive him, he says, “You’ll come around.”

“No,” I say. “I won’t. Not because I don’t like you—well, I don’t like some things about you—but because I’m trying to build a life that doesn’t revolve around other people’s indecision.”

He studies me for a beat, then nods slowly. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

It’s not a clean break—those don’t exist when you’ve shared a life—but it’s a boundary. It’s a sentence I say out loud and mean. Saying it makes the air feel different, like I’ve closed a window that was letting in drafts.

After he leaves, I find Chloe in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and a look that says she’s been waiting for the moment she could pounce. “Did he show up?” she asks, voice low.

“He did,” I say.

Chloe’s face softens, then hardens. “Did you tell him to go away?”

“I did,” I say. “He tried the ‘we should be friends’ line.”

Chloe makes a disgusted sound. “Friends. He’s not a friend. He’s a subscription you forgot to cancel.”

We both laugh, which is the best kind of medicine. She wraps an arm around my shoulders like a shield. “Good. Because you don’t need that drama. You need pizza and someone to help you hide the mugs.”

“Hide them where?” I ask.

“In the back of the cupboard. Behind the Tupperware you never use,” she says. “Also, if he texts, don’t answer. If he shows up again, I will personally escort him out.”

“Promise?” I ask.

“Promise,” she says. “Now, let’s finish this seating chart before someone suggests a fireworks finale.”

We get back to work—me with my list of vendors, Chloe with her opinions, Priya with her spreadsheets. The day hums on, full of small fires and tiny victories. Ryan’s presence is a ripple that fades; the work is the current that keeps me steady.

That night, when I collapsed on Chloe’s couch with a bowl of something that is definitely not kale, she nudges me. “You did good today.”

“I did,” I say. “It felt…necessary.”

She nods. “Boundaries are sexy,” she says, grinning.

“Sexy?” I repeat.

“Very,” she says. “Also, practical. Now, tell me everything he said so I can file it under ‘evidence’ in case he forgets what ‘no’ means.”

I tell her, and we laugh until our sides hurt.

Saying no to Ryan didn’t fix everything, but it fixed one small, important thing: my right to choose who gets to be in my life.