Page 121 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“It does to me.” She rubs her temples in frustration. “Look, I know it probably soundsridiculous to you. You’ve built an empire. You understand how to leverage connections and opportunities.”

“And you think I did that alone?” I counter. “You think I never accepted help?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because you never had someone deliberately try to convince you that you couldn’t do it.” Her voice catches slightly. “That you weren’t good enough. That your passion was worthless.”

I watch her, this fierce, talented woman who’s somehow become essential to my daily life. Who challenges me in ways no one else dares. Who sleeps in my arms every night but still keeps her distance in a dozen subtle ways.

“Fine,” I concede. “Do it your way.”

Relief washes over her face. “Thank you.”

I nod, turning away to refill my coffee mug, needing a moment to sort through my conflicting reactions. Part of me, mostly the controlling part that’s ensured my success, wants to override her objections and smooth her path anyway. To secretly use my power and influence to ensure she gets the best possible space for her gallery.

The other part admires her stubborn independence. Respects her need to build something that’s wholly hers, untainted by my influence or assistance. That part knows she’ll get really pissed off if I cross her on this.

“What’s your timeline?” I ask, leaning back against the counter.

She relaxes slightly, seeing I’ve accepted her decision. “I want to have everything in place to launch within a month after the remaining settlement payment. I’m meeting with Dean Wess nextweek to discuss potential artists for the inaugural exhibition.”

After the remaining settlement payment. After our contract ends. After we’re no longer husband and wife, even on paper.

“Ambitious,” I note, sipping my coffee.

“Necessary,” she corrects. “I need to hit the ground running. Art world attention spans are short.”

I study her as she returns to her laptop, watch her scrolling through listings with intense focus. She’s planning her exit strategy. Just as she should be. Just as I encouraged her to do.

So why does it feel like someone’s tightening a vise around my chest?

“I have a meeting with the developer for the Riverside project this afternoon,” I say, changing the subject. “Want to join?”

She looks up, surprised. “You want me there?”

“It was your vision that made the project viable,” I remind her. “Besides, might be good experience for when you’re negotiating your own lease.”

She gives me a small smile. “Okay. What time?”

“Three. Car will be ready at two-thirty.”

She nods and returns to her research. I watch her for a moment longer, then retreat to my office, closing the door behind me.

Sitting at my desk, I stare at the contract open on my screen without really seeing it. Six months. That was the deal. Clean, efficient, mutually beneficial. We both get what we want, then go our separate ways.

I pull up my calendar, counting the days until the contract expires. Forty-nine.

Forty-nine more days of Ava in my home, in my bed, in my life. Forty-nine days until she takes her settlement and builds her gallery withoutmy help, proving to herself and the ghost of her stepfather that she can succeed on her own terms.

I should be satisfied. The arrangement is working exactly as planned. Better than planned, considering the SEC investigation seems to have been satisfied by our performance.

So why am I contemplating what it would take to convince her to stay?

Fuck. I’m getting sentimental. Dangerous territory for a man in my position.

I close the calendar and force myself to focus on my business. Numbers don’t lie. Numbers don’t develop inconvenient feelings or plan exit strategies.

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