Page 134 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I step closer to the canvas again. For the first time in forever, I feel like I’m not carrying the weight of my own unloved parts alone. And maybe that’s what love actually is, not someone to complete your missing pieces, but someone who recognizes the whole puzzle, messy and unfinished as it may be, and chooses to sit down beside you while you both figure it outtogether.

Which is exactly what the lawyers were telling me today isn’t supposed to happen.

Both parties affirm that no emotional attachment or involvement has developed...

I close my eyes, the reality of our situation crashing back like a wave. In a little over thirty days, I’m supposed to walk away from this, fromhim, cleanly. No messy feelings. No complications. Just a business arrangement concluded to mutual satisfaction.

And here I am, standing in a studio I’ve created within his luxury penthouse, wearing clothes stained with paint I bought with his money, having just realized that I’ve fallen completely, catastrophically in love with him.

“Fuck,” I whisper to the canvas, which seems to be mocking me now with its accidental accuracy. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

But it has. And no amount of legal language or “dissolution protocols” can undo it.

I’ve fallen in love with Gideon King, in direct violation of Paragraph 3.2. And the most terrifying part isn’t that I’ve broken our contract. No, it’s that I have absolutely no idea if he’s done the same. Why would he hang my paintings on my wall if he hadn’t? Because maybe it’s his way of saying goodbye.

Oh god, I just don’t know.

I step back, wiping my hands absently on my already-ruined blouse, and stare at the evidence of my emotional unraveling splashed across the canvas. At least I’ll have my art when this is over. That’s more than I had when my stepfather betrayed me.

Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

I reach for my phone, and briefly consider textingLucy to come over with emergency ice cream and cynical relationship advice, then put it back down.

I will talk to her. Iwill. I just... need a bit longer to process things.

Instead, I pick up a fresh brush, dip it in silver-white, and add a single, deliberate line across the chaos of the canvas. A horizon line, barely visible but somehow holding the entire storm together.

Because that’s what Gideon has become for me. The line I orient myself by, even in the midst of emotional chaos.

The line I’m about to lose.

44

Ava

I’m sitting in the corner booth of Lucien Bistro, methodically shredding a napkin into confetti while checking my phone for the fourteenth time in eight minutes. My leg bounces under the table with enough force to register on local seismographs.

You’ve faced down New York art critics, Ava. You deal with an unruly billionaire every day. You can handle telling your best friend you’ve been living an elaborate lie for months. No big deal. Just casual Thursday activities.

I can see Diana and Michael, my ever vigilant sentinels of protection, standing watch outside the entrance.

The waiter approaches with a tentative smile. “Another sparkling water while you wait?”

“Actually, I’ll take a glass of whatever wine will make my coming conversation easier,” I say, attempting a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

“The Pinot Noir is excellent for courage,” he offers with unexpected perception.

“Perfect. Bring two glasses. My friend will need it, too.”

As he walks away, I spot Lucy through the window, her honey-blonde hair catching the afternoon sunlight as she checks her phone before entering. She’s wearing one of her power blazers, navy blue with subtle gold buttons, the outfit she reserves for important meetings or emotional emergencies. I texted her with “911 friendship crisis” and she clearly understood the dress code.

The tiny bell above the door jingles as she enters, and I watch her scan the restaurant before her eyes lock with mine. Her concerned expression shifts to a bright smile that doesn’t quite hide her worry.

“There she is,” Lucy announces, sliding into the booth across from me. “The mysterious disappearing artist who’s been too busy with married life to answer half my texts.”

I feel my face heating up immediately.Spontaneous lobster mode activated. Right on schedule.

“Yeah, about that...” I start, but the waiter arrives with our wine, giving me a reprieve.

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