Page 14 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

How am I supposed to ever be with another man again after experiencingthis?

Oh god, what have I done?

4

Gideon

The city lights shimmer through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, casting shadows across her sleeping form. I study her. Ava Redwood. Even her name has an artistic quality to it. Strong yet delicate.

I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her thick black curls splayed across my pillow like an abstract painting.

I shouldn’t be doing this, watching her sleep. It’s intimate in a way that transcends the physical connection we shared. But I can’t look away. There’s something captivating about her unguarded vulnerability, something I rarely encounter in my world of calculated risks and strategic moves. I should have kicked her out when we climaxed, but something stopped me, something made me offer to let her spend the night. I’m not sure what.

She knows who I am, of course. Or at least, she suspects. I saw her studying the paintings on my wall with the practiced eye of someone who understands their authenticity. Yet she played along with mycharade, and I let her. John. The thin veil between the real me and the billionaire persona that often overwhelms genuine connection.

I run my hand through my hair, careful not to disturb her. Why did I maintain the fiction? The answer is uncomfortable: because for once, I wanted someone to see me for me, not my net worth.

This isn’t like my other encounters. Usually, there’s a script: meet, charm, fuck, goodbye. Efficient and emotionally sterile. But with Ava...

Fuck, I find myself cataloging details. The way she bites her lower lip when considering a question. How her eyes light up when discussing color theory. The small, paint-stained crescent beneath her thumbnail that she didn’t manage to scrub away.

Her eyelids flutter and I tense, wondering if she’ll wake annoyed at finding me studying her like one of her paintings. Instead, she smiles sleepily.

“You’re still up,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“I don’t need much rest.” A half-truth. Insomnia has been my companion since Celeste’s betrayal.

“Thanks for letting me stay.” Ava shifts, pulling the sheet higher. “What time is it?”

“Just after two.” I reach for the water glass on the nightstand, offering it to her. Our fingers brush, and even this casual contact sends an unwelcome surge of awareness through me. Shit, I need to get it together. Still... it’s not morning, yet.

She takes a sip. “You had a Rothko hanging out in the hallway. And a de Kooning. Quite the pieces for a simple Gideon King ‘lookalike’ to own.”

My lips quirk. “You know your art.”

“I’m about to graduate from Parsons. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t recognize originals when I seethem.” She sits up straighter, the sheet falling to her waist. I force my eyes to remain on her face. “The Joan Mitchell in your foyer is magnificent too. Perfect brushwork, authentic signature orientation. Definitely not a reproduction.”

I trace patterns on the sheet between us. “Most people don’t notice those details.”

“Most people haven’t spent their entire academic career studying these artists.” She takes a breath, her gaze direct and unfaltering. “You’re the real Gideon King, aren’t you?”

The question hangs between us. I could deny it, but what’s the point now? I nod once, watching her carefully for signs of the calculation that usually follows when women discover my true wealth.

“Why me?” The vulnerability in her question catches me off guard. Not ‘why the deception’ or ‘what do you want from me’ or ‘what will you pay me to keep my mouth shut,’ but a fundamental question about her own worth. It reveals depths of insecurity I didn’t anticipate.

“Why not you?” I counter, then soften my tone. “You’re talented. Authentic. You see the world through a lens that’s entirely your own. Your use of color in that landscape series.” I shake my head. “The emotion you conveyed without resorting to obvious symbolism. It’s rare.”

A blush spreads across her cheeks. “That’s... specific.”

“I understand art,” I say simply.

She shifts closer, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder, her arm draping across my chest. She’s cuddling me. The position is startlingly intimate, more so than our earlier passion. I should moveaway. I don’t.

“So who’s John, then?” she asks, a smile playing on her lips. “Did you make it up?”

“It’s my middle name,” I say truthfully.

She tries it on her tongue. “Gideon John King. I like it.” She smiles sadly. “At least you didn’t completely lie. Which is saying something.” There’s no accusation in her voice, only a resigned acceptance that surprises me. “There’s hope for the male species yet,” she finishes bitterly.

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