Page 1 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

1

Ava

Iarrive at Wess Gallery an hour before the exhibition officially opens, hoping the empty space might calm my jittery nerves. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

“This is fine,” I whisper to myself, straightening the collar of my one semi-professional black dress. “Totally fine.”

It’s not fine. It’s my first legitimate art showing in a respected SoHo gallery. I’m sweating so much the gallery might need to invest in a ‘Slippery When Wet’ sign just for me. Four long years at Parsons, countless ramen-fueled nights hunched over canvases until my back screamed for mercy. Now, everything hinges on the next three hours. No pressure is an understatement.

I scan the gallery. The staff is bustling around the main area, setting up champagne stations. Except— wait.Of coursethe room where my paintings are hanging has zero champagne. Great. Everyone knows sober people don’t buy art. I’m pretty sure that’s the first rule in the “How to Run a Successful Gallery”handbook, right between “pretentious lighting is essential” and “always act like you understand what the artist meant.”

I spot a tall, well-built man in dark clothing standing near the entrance, his back to me. His posture screams “supervisor," you know, the whole alert, observant, slightly detached from the social space around him thing. Perfect. Someone who can handle the champagne situation before the VIPs arrive.

Feeling purposeful, I march over and poke him gently in the shoulder.

“Pardon me,” I say politely. “You guys missed the champagne trays in the second room. Any way you could—”

Then he turns around.

Oh.

Oh,shit.

I freeze. This dude is no staffer. Hell no. Not unless caterers suddenly started modeling bespoke charcoal suits and jawlines sharp enough to cut granite. My stomach backflips because he’s ridiculously, unfairly attractive. Ridiculous being the keyword.

Just then, his cologne hits me like a velvet glove wrapped in barbed wire. Jesus. Bright, blood-orange zest slices, sharp enough to make my lungs hitch. Beneath it simmers something darker: aged cognac amber, the bite of black vetiver, and... smoke. Not cigarette ash. Woodsmoke. Like he bathed in a forest fire and then rolled in thousand-dollar bills.

He raises an amused eyebrow at me. No words, just this quirky half-smile that makes me want the floor to kindly open up and swallow me whole.

And then, without answering, he just walks away.

I stand frozen, confused.What just happened?

Before I can run away and join the circus, Dean Wess swoops in from the back room, arms thrown wide in his signature theatrical greeting.

“Ava, darling! You’re deliciously early. Come, come, let’s make sure your corner is absolutely—” He stops mid-sentence, his eyes tracking the departing figure of the man I just spoke to. His expression shifts from exuberance to horror in a millisecond. “Please tell me you weren’t just speaking to Gideon King.”

The blood drains from my face so fast I’m surprised I remain standing. “That was—”

“The most influential art collector in Manhattan, yes.” Dean runs a hand through his styled hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement. “The man who could single-handedly launch your career.”

Kill me.

“What did you say to him?” Dean looks like he might need smelling salts.

Don’t throw up. Breathe. Inhale confidence, exhale shame.

“I might have... asked him to make sure the secondary room has champagne trays,” I admit, feeling my face grow super hot. It’s the first stage of what my best friend Lucy likes to call my “spontaneous lobster impersonation.” Once the blushing starts, it only gets worse, feeding on itself until I’m practically steaming from embarrassment. It’s a condition that can only be cured by immediately leaving the country and changing my identity.

Dean takes a deep breath, his flair for drama reasserting itself. “Regroup! Smile! Pretend you meant it as ironic social commentary!” He straightens his colorful pocket square. “I need to make sure everything is perfect before the rest of the guests arrive. Just try to relax, Ava. Art is eternal, humiliationtemporary.”

The next half hour flashes by so quickly it’s like my anxiety accidentally fast-forwards reality. More waitstaff in crisp black uniforms materialize, their trays laden with tiny, pretentious food items, and suddenly the empty gallery transforms into a buzzing ecosystem of art-world socialites. I hover awkwardly near my paintings, trying to look like I belong.

Thank heavens Lucy materializes beside me, calm and collected, looking more put-together than I ever could. She hands me champagne, glancing at me sympathetically as I gulp it down like liquid Xanax.

“Thank god you’re here.” I pull her into a quick hug. “I’m drowning in anxiety and Chanel No. 5.”

Lucy laughs, her honey-blonde waves bouncing. “You’re doing fine. Dean looks thrilled, and I’ve already overheard two conversations about ‘the promising new artist.’ That’s you, by the way.”

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