Page 144 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Look at me,” he orders when I close my eyes. “I want to see you.”

I obey, meeting his gaze as pleasure builds within me. There’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability beneath the dominance, need beneath the control.

“Gideon,” I gasp as my orgasm approaches. “Please.”

“Cum for me, my vixen,” he urges, his rhythm faltering as he nears his own release. “Let me see you cum. Tell me how much you enjoy it.”

My climax crashes through me with unexpected intensity. I cry out his name, clinging to him as waves of pleasure overwhelm me. He follows moments later, his body tensing as he cums with a deep groan.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, breathing hard. His weight pins me to the mattress, a comforting pressure I don’t want to lose. Eventually, he shifts to the side, pulling me against his chest in a way that feels achingly tender after the intensity of our rough encounter.

For a few precious minutes, I allow myself to pretend this is real. That we’re a normal couple who just had an argument and had make up sex. That we have more than a little over two weeks left. That he could love me the way I love him.

I’m not sure why I provoked him. I guess I thought the provocation would make him say something real, and break through whatever wall he’s built around his feelings. Instead, all I got was incredible sex that somehow left me feeling emptier than before.

Gideon’s breathing evens out, his arm still draped over my waist. I stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with our vigorous activity and everything to do with the words Vanessa planted in my mind.

Marriage for love is a fairy tale. I’ll only ever marry for strategic advantage.

Twenty-three days left in our contract. Twenty-three days until I have to say goodbye to this man who’s somehow become the centerof my world. Twenty-three days to pretend that having my heart broken was part of the deal all along.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, knowing it won’t. Because for all my efforts to provoke an emotional response, all I’ve managed to do is confirm what I feared most: this arrangement might be the only real thing we’ll ever have.

47

Ava

Itrace a lazy pattern across Gideon’s empty side of the bed, still warm from where he slept. He’s already gone for his morning workout, leaving behind nothing but rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of his cologne on the pillow.

This bed is going to feel impossibly empty in two weeks. Stop torturing yourself, Ava.

The buzzing of the intercom interrupts my pity party. I wrap myself in Gideon’s discarded dress shirt from yesterday, a habit I should probably break sooner rather than later, and pad to the entryway.

“Package for you, Ms. King. Would you like me to bring it up?” Mark’s friendly voice crackles through the speaker.

“Thank you, Mark.”

I run a hand through my bedhead, not bothering to make myself presentable. The building security staff has seen worse from me over these past six months.

When the elevator dings, Mark appears with a sleek envelope bearing the unmistakable logo of Hoffman,Weiss & Partners. My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.

“Have a good day, Ms. King,” he says with a smile that’s too kind for what we both know is inside this envelope.

Alone again, I stare at the package like it’s a ticking bomb. It’s been almost six months since I signed my name on the marriage certificate, and now here are the papers to undo it all.

Just open it, Ava. You’ve known this was coming since day one.

I tear open the envelope and there they are. Neat, professional documents outlining the clinical dissolution of my marriage. My fake marriage. The one with an expiration date that I stupidly forgot about while falling in love with my temporary husband.

My phone buzzes with a text, mercifully distracting me from my spiral. It’s from my real estate agent.

It’s yours if you want it. Need to know by end of week.

My heart skips. The gallery in Chelsea. The one with the perfect lighting and exposed brick. Mine. Through my own connections, my own negotiations.

I should be jumping up and down. I should be calling Lucy to squeal into the phone. Instead, I’m standing in a penthouse that’s never really been mine, wearing a shirt that’s never really been mine, holding divorce papers in one hand and the text about my dream gallery in the other.

The universe has a twisted sense of timing.

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