Page 107 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“I prefer ‘refreshingly honest,’” she counters, raising her glass in a mock toast.

The evening flows easily after that. We talk about everything and nothing. Her latest art project. My expansion plans for the west coast properties. The ridiculous boob-popping dress Vanessa wore to the Bronson charity gala. She makes me laugh more in one night than I have in months.

Ray and Mike stand discreetly by the entrance, watching without watching. The other patrons pretend not to stare at us. Ava doesn’t seem to notice or care, too busy telling me about the time she accidentally used permanent marker instead of erasable pen in Professor Marshall’s class.

For a few precious hours, I allow myself to forgetthat this is all for show. That in three months, she’ll cash her final settlement check and walk away.

The car glidesthrough Manhattan’s late-night streets, the city lights reflecting off the sleek black exterior. Ava is quiet beside me, her face turned toward the window. I watch her reflection in the glass, allowing myself this stolen moment.

What if we extended the arrangement?

The thought ambushes me without warning. We could redefine the terms. Another six months. A year. I could offer her more money, better terms. She could use the additional funds for her gallery space. It would be a business decision, nothing more.

Bullshit.

I ruthlessly shut down the thought. This is dangerous sentimentality. The kind that leads to compromised judgment and costly mistakes. I’ve been down this road before, let emotion cloud my business sense, and it nearly bankrupted me. Celeste made sure of that.

No. The arrangement ends as planned. Six months, clean break, everyone gets what they need.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Ava asks, turning from the window.

I school my features into practiced neutrality. “Just considering some business matters.”

She studies me for a moment, her artist’s eye seeing more than I’d like. “Always working,” she says softly. Not an accusation, just an observation.

“It’s who I am,” I reply.

The car pulls up to our building, and the moment breaks. Ray and Mike emerge from the SUV that wasfollowing us. Ray opens Ava’s door while Mike scans the street, ever vigilant. As we enter the lobby, my hand finds the small of her back automatically, a gesture that’s become second nature.

This is just a performance. A carefully orchestrated show for the benefit of others. The warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress means nothing. The way she leans slightly into my touch is just muscle memory.

In three months, the curtain falls. The show ends.

And I’ll be fine with that.

I have to be.

35

Ava

I’m standing in the kitchen of the penthouse, wiping down counters that are already spotless. My mother texted an hour ago that her flight landed early, and she’ll be here any minute. Cue the anxiety spiral.

Nothing says ‘I’ve totally got my life together’ like panic-cleaning a perfectly clean multi-million dollar apartment.

The elevator dings, and I nearly drop the sponge. Gideon emerges, looking unfairly put together in a tailored charcoal suit. He takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow.

“Your mother isn’t due for another forty minutes.”

I blow a curl out of my face. “She texted. Early flight.”

“Ah.” He loosens his tie slightly. “Should I change?”

“Into what? Something less intimidatingly perfect?” I gesture at my casual outfit, at the jeans and a semi-decent blouse that doesn’t have paint on it. “Trust me, you’re fine. She’s already going to thinkI’ve been abducted by aliens and replaced with a pod person who marries billionaires.”

Gideon’s lips twitch. “I’m hardly that intimidating.”

I give him a look that saysseriously?but the doorbell interrupts whatever sarcastic retort was forming.

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