Page 142 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“What did Vanessa say to you?” he asks during a lull.

I nearly choke on my water. “What?”

“In the bathroom. She followed you in there, didn’t she?”

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “Just the usual catty socialite stuff. Nothing worth repeating.”

I can tell by the way his eyes darken that he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. By the time we’re in the car heading back to the penthouse, a thick silence has settled between us.

Way to kill the celebration vibe, Ava. I’m in the running for the Oscar for the Most Talented Mood Ruiner.

Back home, I head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might wash away the echo of Vanessa’s words. It doesn’t. I step out, wrap myself in a towel, and stare at my flushed reflection in the steamy mirror.

Marriage for love is a fairy tale.

Maybe Vanessa made it up. Maybe she’s lying to create discord. But what if she isn’t? What if Gideon really said those things?

What did you expect? A billionaire with trust issues to suddenly believe in happily ever after because he had good sex with you?

I laugh at myself, the sound brittle in the tiled bathroom. When I emerge, Gideon is sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket and tie discarded, sleevesrolled up to reveal his forearms. He looks up, his expression unreadable.

“Going to tell me what’s really bothering you?” he asks quietly.

“Nothing’s bothering me,” I lie, crossing to the dresser. “I’m just tired from all the excitement.”

“Bullshit. I heard that bitter laugh.”

The sharpness in his voice makes me turn. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been distant since Vanessa showed up.” He stands, closing some of the space between us. “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” I snap, surprising myself with the bite in my voice.

His eyebrows rise. “And what truth was that?”

“That you don’t believe in marriage for love.” The words escape before I can stop them. “That you think business partnerships are the only relationships that last.”

Gideon goes very still. “She said that?”

“Did you say it to her?” I counter, my heart hammering. “During your ‘nightcap’ with her after some stupid gala?”

His silence is answer enough. I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears.

“Great.” I turn away, yanking open a drawer with more force than necessary. “Thanks for confirming.”

“Ava—”

“No, it’s fine.” I pull out sleep shorts and a tank top, clutching them in front of me like armor. “It’s not like you’ve ever pretended otherwise. The contract spells it out pretty clearly.”

“You’re upset,” he observes, as if diagnosing a minor technicalproblem.

“I’m not upset,” I lie through my teeth. “I’m realistic.”

“Are you?” He moves closer, and I can smell his cologne, the scent that’s become synonymous with home in my mind. “Because you’re acting like someone just told you Santa isn’t real.”

Heat floods my face. “Fuck you, Gideon.”

His eyes darken at my words, and something shifts in the air between us. “Is that what you want?”

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