Page 132 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I sink onto the couch, staring up at my abstract where a Rothko had hung. It’s one of the first pieces I’d painted after I was accepted at Parsons. I hadn’t realized how clearly my feelings showed in those indigo sweeps, how plainly my heart was displayed in those golden fractures.

But Gideon had.

And he’d chosen to live with it rather than a masterpiece.

43

Ava

There’s something uniquely soul-crushing about having your heart dissected by lawyers who bill by the hour.

“As we approach the final thirty days of the arrangement,” says Mr. Hoffman, sliding another document across the polished conference table, “we should review the dissolution protocols outlined in Section 8.3.”

Dissolution protocols.Like what Gideon and I have together is just some chemical compound that needs to be safely neutralized.

Jesus.

I nod, maintaining what I hope is an expression of professional interest rather than the internal screaming that’s actually happening behind my eyes. The conference room at Hoffman, Weiss & Partners is exactly what you’d expect. All mahogany, leather and discreet wealth, the kind of place where emotions go to die comfortable, expensive deaths.

Gideon sits beside me, one hand resting casually on the table, close enough that I can feel the warmthradiating from it. His expression betrays nothing. No discomfort, no hesitation, just the calm, collected CEO reviewing another business transaction reaching its natural conclusion.

My stomach twists. When did this become so hard?

“Ms. Redwood,” Mr. Hoffman’s voice pulls me back to the nightmare at hand, “I’ll need your initials on pages four, seven, and twelve. These confirm your understanding that upon dissolution of the marriage, the voting trust will revert to Mr. King exclusively.”

Dissolution of the marriage.There it is again. Our relationship reduced to legal jargon that makes it sound like we had something toxic.

“Of course,” I say, taking the Mont Blanc pen he offers. The weight of it feels obscene somehow, like I’m signing away pieces of myself with a tool that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.

I flip to page four, where Paragraph 5.3 stares back at me in crisp, accusatory type:

“Both parties affirm that no emotional attachment or involvement has developed during the course of this arrangement that would constitute grounds for contesting the predetermined dissolution.”

The paragraph might as well be highlighted in fluorescent ink, bright like a warning sign. I can feel Gideon’s eyes on me, probably wondering why I’ve suddenly turned into a statue with a really expensive pen.

Fuck me.

“Is there an issue with the language?” Mr. Hoffman asks, frowning slightly. His tone suggests that having feelings would be not just inconvenient but possibly a breach of contract.

“No,” I manage, scribbling my initials with more force than necessary. “Just... reading carefully.”

Gideon’s hand moves slightly closer to mine, almost touching but not quite. Like everything else between us: almost, but not quite.

“And here,” Mr. Hoffman continues, flipping to another page filled with more heartless legalese, “we outline the division of assets acquired during the arrangement period.”

Division of assets. That phrase hits me like a bucket of ice water, triggering a memory I’ve been trying to outrun for years.

“Your little paintings aren’t assets, Ava, they’re hobbies. I’m just helping you understand their actual value in the real world.”My stepfather’s voice, explaining why he’d sold my grandmother’s portrait, the one thing I’d created that mattered most. The thing Gideon had gotten back for me.

This is different, I remind myself. These terms were transparent from the beginning. I agreed to them with my eyes wide open. There’s no betrayal here, just business.

So why does it feel increasingly like my stepfather’s living room all over again? My life being clinically dismantled by someone with a calculator and a condescending smile?

“Ms. Redwood will of course retain all artistic works created during the arrangement,” Gideon interjects, his voice breaking through my spiral.

I glance at him, surprised. It’s not that the provision is unexpected. It was in our original agreement, but something in his tone catches me off guard. There’s an edge there, a firmness that suggests this point is non-negotiable.

“Yes, that’s noted in Section 6.9,”Mr. Hoffman confirms, looking slightly annoyed at the interruption. “Along with the stipulation that Mr. King retains right of first refusal should Ms. Redwood wish to sell any works created during the arrangement.”

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