Page 130 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

That’s unfair and I know it. Gideon hasn’t been avoiding me. I’ve been avoiding him. Easier to hide in Brooklyn than face whatever shifted between us that night.

Nothing, remember?

The ride back to Manhattan is silent, save for the soft classical music playing through the speakers. I press my forehead against the cool window glass, watching the city blur by.

You’re going to have to talk to him eventually. Unless you plan to sleep in your studio until the divorce.

Divorce. The word sits heavy in my stomach. Six more weeks until our contract ends and we go our separate ways. The thought makes me feel slightly nauseated, which I’m blaming entirely on three days of questionable eating habits and not on any inconvenient feelings.

“We’re here, Ms. Redwood,” Michael announces as we pull up to the building. Diana is sitting in the passenger seat beside him, and she gets out to open the back door for me.

I gather my tote bag, wincing as I notice the streak of ultramarine blue I’ve accidentally left on the Italian leather. Gideon gave me this bag last month, casually, like it wasn’t worth more than my first semester’s tuition. At least the SUV’s seats were spared any paint.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Diana. She looks exhausted and a little relieved. Probably looking forward to a good night’s sleep in her ownbed. I feel a little guilty for making them camp out in the SUV, but I remind myself that she and Michael are paid extremely well for their services.

“Ms. Redwood?” Diana calls as I head for the entrance. “You have...” She gestures vaguely at my face.

I catch my reflection in the tinted car window. There’s a streak of burnt sienna across my cheek. Also, my hair is piled in what can only be described as a rat’s nest secured by not one but two paintbrushes, and I have dark circles under my eyes that would make a panda confuse me for its best friend.

Peak trophy wife material right here.

“It’s fine,” I shrug. “Gideon’s seen worse.”

Like my soul, for instance, when he watched me paint.

Inside, I pass the security desk and enter the elevator. I fumble with the button to the penthouse floor, my fingers still slightly sticky with acrylic medium. It finally recognizes my print and the elevator door closes. After too many waking hours in my Brooklyn studio, I’m running purely on muscle memory and the fumes of several questionable coffees from a place near the warehouse that I’m pretty sure doubles as a mob front.

The elevator doors open onto the penthouse suite, immediately assaulting me with the scent of whatever magical concoction Mrs. Laurent has left in the warming oven. My stomach growls in response. I’ve forgotten to eat lunch again. And breakfast. Possibly dinner yesterday, too.

I drop my bag by the door, rolling my shoulders to release the tension of hunching over canvases all day. My gaze automatically lifts to the massive Rothko that dominates the living room wall, you know, theone whose estimated value makes my former student loans look like pocket change.

Except the Rothko isn’t there.

In its place hangs the large abstract from my thesis collection, the one with sweeping indigo gestures against a fractured golden background.

I blink hard.

Great, now I’m hallucinating. This is exactly what Lucy warned me about. ‘Sleep deprivation makes you basically drunk without the fun parts,’ she said.

But when I open my eyes, my painting is still there, perfectly centered, professionally lit.

“What the actual—” I move closer, confirming it’s indeed my work. The signature in the bottom corner stares back at me.

My heart starts pounding.

Oh god. Have I accidentally painted over the Rothko? Oh shit. How could I have?

My mind races, trying to figure out exactly how I could fuck this up so badly, but I’m drawing a blank.

I spin around, suddenly registering that something’s off about the entire space. The de Kooning in the hallway is gone too, replaced by my experimental mixed media piece on urban isolation. The small Hockney that usually hangs by the dining room entrance has been swapped for my triptych on memory distortion.

Everywhere I look, million-dollar masterpieces have been replaced with... me.

I’m still standing frozen in the center of the living room, experiencing what can only be described as an out-of-body experience, when I hear the elevator open.

Gideon walks in, loosening his tie with one hand, his phone pressed to his ear with theother. “—need those projections by tomorrow morning. Yes. Fine.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone before his eyes find mine.

“You’re home early,” he says casually, as if the walls aren’t currently experiencing an identity crisis.

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