Page 110 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Mom!” I say, feeling my cheeks turn red. “That’s none of your business!”

She shrugs. “What? It’s perfectly normal for married couples to have sex. Healthy, in fact. So why aren’t you sharing a bed?”

I knew it was a bad idea to let my mom stay with us! Shit shit shit.

“We decided early on that it was better this way,” I lie, feeling my face become hotter. “Gideon is a light sleeper. If I move even an inch, he wakes up. So, separate bedrooms.”

She studies me suspiciously, then shrugs. “Okay, honey. As long as yours happy.”

“Oh I am!” I say with false enthusiasm. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

But if anyone can see right through me, it’s her.

Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything, and instead gives me a long hug.

Hours later,after my mother has gone to bed, I retreat to my small studio space in the penthouse. The canvas I’ve been working on is covered with a cloth. I hesitate before pulling it away.

The painting reveals itself. It’s an abstract study in blues and grays, but unmistakably inspired by Gideon. The unmistakable line of his jaw,the intensity of his gaze, the set of his shoulders when he’s protecting something he cares about.

I step back, confronting the truth I’ve been avoiding. My art has always been my most honest form of expression, and these new paintings are telling a story I’m not ready to acknowledge.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. No emotional involvement, remember?

But as I look at the canvas, at the way I’ve unconsciously woven Gideon’s essence into my work, I know I’m already breaking that clause with every brushstroke.

I cover the painting again, as if hiding it might somehow hide my feelings too.

Three more months. That’s all we have left.

And then what?

I’m suppose to pretend none of this ever happened?

Pretend I don’t feel a thing?

Oh god, it’s going to be hard.

Best not to let myself get more attached than I already am.

36

Gideon

Ican’t fucking sleep. Again.

The ceiling of my bedroom seems to mock me with its pristine emptiness. Three in the morning and my mind won’t shut down. Numbers from the Tokyo deal keep scrolling behind my eyelids like ticker tape, and every time I close my eyes, I see Blackwell’s smug face.

Fuck this.

I throw off the covers and head to the kitchen. Maybe some warm milk or something stronger will knock me out. As I pass Ava’s door, I pause. There’s a sound. Soft at first, then unmistakable.

Crying.

My heart rate spikes. Without thinking, I push the door open.

“Ava?”

She’s curled on her side, back to the door, shoulders shaking. The moonlight through the window illuminates her dark curls splashed across the pillow.

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