Page 122 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

But as I work, I can’t shake the image of Ava hunched over her laptop, planning her future. A future that, in forty-nine days, will no longer include me.

40

Ava

The Conrad New York Hotel ballroom reeks of money. Not the subtle kind either. We’re talking aggressive, gold-plated wealth that throws Dom Pérignon in your face and expects you to thank it. The purple lighting bathes everything in an almost otherworldly glow. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, and the tables? Oh, they’re not just set; they’re curated. White orchids spill over towering vases, flickering candles cast a soft, calculated glow, and the whole thing hums with the quiet arrogance of people who know their last names open doors.

I absentmindedly adjust the straps of my midnight blue dress, fighting the urge to tug at the neckline that keeps threatening to reveal more than I bargained for.

Nothing says “legitimate businessman’s wife” like constantly checking if your boobs are making a surprise appearance.

I can’t shake images of Vanessa’s own neckline faux pas from my mind.

I knew I should have went with my usual blue dress. But Gideon said ‘I looked fine.’

“Stop fidgeting,” Gideon murmurs, his hand warm against my lower back. “You look perfect.”

“Easy for you to say. Your outfit isn’t plotting an indecent exposure charge.” I whisper back, taking a champagne flute from a passing server.

Gideon’s lips quirk upward. “That dress is worth every penny of the small fortune it cost.”

“I still can’t believe I let your personal assistant talk me into it.” I take a fortifying sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dance across my tongue.

“Mrs. King.” A balding man with anxious eyes approaches us. “And Mr. King, of course. Wonderful to see you both.”

Gideon’s posture shifts immediately, his CEO mask sliding into place. “Preston. Good of you to come.”

Preston Hammond. He’s the key investor in the Riverside Corridor project. The one threatening to pull $200 million in financing after hearing rumors about Blackwell’s takeover attempt. I’d overheard Gideon on the phone with Jonas this morning, their tense conversation revealing just how precarious the situation had become.

“Could I have a word?” Preston asks, not quite making eye contact with me. “In private?”

Oh sure, because the little woman couldn’t possibly understand the big important money talk.

Gideon glances at me apologetically. “Will you be okay for a few minutes?”

“I’ll try not to burn the place down,” I reply with a sweet smile. Preston blinks in confusion.

“She’s joking,” Gideon clarifies, squeezing my hand briefly. “I won’t be long.”

I watch them disappear into a side room, leaving me adrift in a sea of New York’s financial elite. I’ve gotten better at this part. Somewhat. The small talk, the polite laughter, the way to hold a champagne glass without looking like I’m afraid I’ll break it. But it still feels like playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

I wander toward a less crowded area near an ice sculpture of what I think is supposed to be Mercury, god of commerce, speed, and whatever else impresses rich people. Honestly, it looks more like a melting alien who got caught mid-abduction and forgot his pants. The comparison makes me snort into my champagne.

“Something amusing, Mrs. King?”

The voice behind me sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the ice sculpture. I turn slowly and recognize Mark Blackwell.

In person, he’s both more and less intimidating than his photos. Shorter than I expected, but with the laser-focused intensity of a predator. His silver hair is slicked back, his suit probably costs more than the ballroom rents out for, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Don’t panic. You’ve practiced this. Channel your inner Gideon. Or better yet, your inner Lucy, who once told off the Dean of Parsons after three tequila shots.

“Mr. Blackwell,” I say, proud that my voice doesn’t waver. “What a surprise.”

“Is it?” He takes a position beside me, examining the ice sculpture. “I assumed your husband would have mentioned I’d be here tonight. Communication is so important in a marriage, don’t you think?”

I feel heat creeping up my neck. “Some details must have slipped his mind.”

“Yes, I imagine he has many... detailsto manage these days.” Blackwell swirls his scotch. “Especially with the SEC poking around.”

---