Page 119 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Okay,” I hear myself answer, my voice steadier than I feel.

He doesn’t smile exactly, but something in his expression softens. “Good.”

After he leaves for work, I tell myself it was a one-time thing. A post-reunion anomaly. The result of emotional overload from seeing my grandmother’s portrait again. Definitely not something we’re going to make a habit of.

I spend the entire day convincing myself I’ll return to my own bedroom that night. My designated sleeping quarters as per section 3.1 of our meticulously negotiated contract. The room with my clothes, my toiletries, my familiar territory.

Just because you slept better in his arms than you have in months doesn’t mean you should do it again. That’s how habits form. That’s how hearts get broken.

By evening, I’ve decided: I’m absolutely,definitely sleeping in my own bed tonight. No question. Decision made.

So naturally, at eleven o’clock, when he arrives home late as always, I find myself standing outside his bedroom door in my sleep shorts and tank top, questioning every life choice that led me to this moment.

This is pathetic, Ava. You’re not some needy girlfriend. You’re his temporary contract wife. Get it together.

I’m about to turn around, retreat to my contractually-approved bedroom, when the door opens. Gideon stands there in just his pajama bottoms, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“I was just—” I start, but the excuse dies on my lips.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps aside, making space for me to enter. Like he’s been waiting. Like he expected me. Like he knew I’d come. Which of course I would.

Walk away. Walk away right now.

I step into his room.

What follows is less frantic than the night before. Slower. More deliberate. When we finally fall asleep, my head on his chest, his arm around my waist, I tell myself this is still just physical. Convenient. Nothing more than two consenting adults finding comfort in each other’s bodies.

The third night, I don’t even pretend I’m going to my own room. I finish my evening shower, pull on my pajamas, and head straight for his bedroom when he gets home. He’s already working on his laptop, but glances up as I enter, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“Page 394 of the quarterly report,” he says by way of greeting. “Riveting stuff.”

“Sounds thrilling,” I reply, climbing onto my side of the bed.

My side. When did he get a “my side”?

“Don’t be long,” I tell him.

He isn’t. Well, his cock is, but that’s another story.

By the fifth night, there’s a phone charger on my nightstand. The sixth night, I notice he’s cleared a drawer for me, though I stubbornly continue retrieving clothes from my own room each morning. The seventh night brings a glass of water waiting for me, because he’s noticed I always wake up thirsty at 3 AM.

It’s the little things that terrify me the most.

On day ten, I find myself staring at my toothbrush, still sitting in its holder in my bathroom. Moving it would be crossing a line, wouldn’t it? Some invisible boundary between “temporarily sharing a bed” and “actually living together as a couple.” As if that boundary isn’t already so blurred it might as well be nonexistent.

The toothbrush stays. As long as the toothbrush stays in your bathroom, this isn’t real.

I don’t move my clothes into his room. My toiletries remain firmly in my bathroom. My art supplies continue to inhabit their designated space in the penthouse. These small acts of separation feel important, like lifelines tethering me to the reality of our arrangement.

This is still temporary. Still a business agreement with benefits. Still has an expiration date circled in red on the calendar.

I maintain these boundaries even as we fall into domestic habits I never imagined sharing with Gideon King. He makes coffee while I toast bagels in the morning. I learn that he reads the businesssection first, and he discovers I solve the crossword puzzles starting with the “across” clues. He unconsciously reaches for my hand while watching the news. I find myself bringing him tea when he’s working late in the home office.

And every night, I sleep in his bed, in his arms, and we somehow maintain the fiction that this is temporary.

“Do you sleep better here?” he asks one night, his voice already thick with approaching sleep, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.

“Yes,” I admit, because there’s no point lying about something so obvious.

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