Page 109 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Rafael,” I mutter. “And we don’t need to discuss my dating history.”

“Or that photography student who convinced you to model for him?” she continues, ignoring my discomfort. “Those photos were so tasteless.”

“Mom.” My voice carries a warning.

“They weren’t tasteless,” Gideon interjects smoothly. “I’ve seen Ava’s portfolio. Those black and white studies were actually quite powerful.”

I stare at him, genuinely surprised. I didn’t even know he’d looked at my portfolio.

“You’ve seen them?” my mother asks, equally surprised.

“Of course.” Gideon sounds almost offended. “I make it a point to understand what matters to Ava. Her art is extraordinary.”

My mother doesn’t quite know what to make of this. She takes another sip of wine and changes tactics. “Speaking of art, I saw the most interesting painting at the Richardsons’ home last month. Remarkably similar to your grandmother’s portrait.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My hand tightens around Gideon’s involuntarily.

No. Not now. Not here.

I feel myself stiffen, the room suddenly too hot, too close. Memories surface. The portrait I’d poured my heart into, my stepfather’s smug face when he told me it was “an investment opportunity,” the scholarship committee’s sympathetic emails when I had no submission to offer.

Gideon’s gaze shifts to me, a question in his eyes. I can’t look at him. Can’t speak.

“Wendy,” he says, his voice cutting through my spiral, “tell me about your flight. I hear the new first-class cabins on that route are exceptional.”

Just like that, he redirects the conversation. I feel a rush of gratitude so intense it almost makesme dizzy. I glance up to find him watching me with concern beneath his polished exterior.

He noticed. He actually noticed.

Later,in the guest bathroom, my mother corners me while Gideon takes a business call.

“All right, what’sreallygoing on?” she demands. “You’ve never been impulsive. You analyze art supplies before buying them, for heaven’s sake. Yet I’m supposed to believe you met and married this man in a week?”

I cross my arms defensively. “Sometimes you just know.”

“Ava Elizabeth Redwood. I’m your mother.”

“It’s complicated, okay? We connected. He understood me in ways no one else has.” The words tumble out with surprising conviction.

I’m supposed to be acting, so why does this feel like truth?

“He’s very wealthy,” she says, watching my reaction.

“This isn’t about money,” I snap, genuine anger flaring. “Do you really think I’d marry someone for their bank account?”

“No,” she admits after a moment. “That was unfair of me. But darling, it’s just so sudden.”

“Life is sudden sometimes.” I soften my tone. “He makes me happy, Mom. He respects my art. He... sees me.”

And he protects me. Notices when I’m uncomfortable. Redirects conversations that hurt me.

She studies my face. “Well, I can see that much is true. You light up when he walks into a room.”

I’m saved from responding by a knock on thedoor. Gideon’s voice comes through. “Everything all right in there?”

“Fine!” we answer in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

She lowers her voice. “I noticed you have your own bedroom. You’re not having sex with him?”

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