Page 148 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

The legal teamis grim but determined. We spend two hours in teleconference reviewing options before Elliott Hayes arrives to outline our PR strategy.

“Deny everything,” Elliott says, pacing my home office. “Admit nothing. When you repeat a lie long enough, it becomes the truth. Lean into the love story angle.”

I glance at Ava, sitting perfectly straight in her navy dress, hair immaculately styled for the cameras. The consummate professional.

“You’re saying our marriage is a lie?” she says quietly.

Elliott glances at me. I admitted the truth to him earlier. He knows everything. Finally he shakes his head and looks back at Ava. “That’s not what I’m saying. All I’m telling you is, focus on the emotional truth. Whatever that is.”

The emotional truth. What a fucking joke. The emotional truth is I’m in love with my wife and I’m still letting her walk away because I’m too much of a coward to admit it.

“We can do that,” I say firmly.

Elliott goes through the talking points with ruthless efficiency. “We’ll do a brief statement today, followed by a select interview tomorrow with a friendly reporter. The key is to appearcompletelyunited. Any hint of trouble and Blackwell wins the narrative.”

Ava nods, her expression neutral. Professional. Detached.

When Elliott leaves to set up the press, I find myself alone with her for the first time since morning.

“You okay with all this?” I ask.

She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her dress. “It’s just another performance, right? One last act to sell.”

Her words cut deeper than she knows. “It doesn’t have to be.”

She looks up sharply. “What does that mean?”

Say it say it say it.

“It means I respect your professionalism.” Coward. “One last push and then you’ll be free of all this.”

Free of me.

I remind myself that it’s better this way.

For her.

She deserves freedom. Not the complicated life that comes with Gideon King.

She nods once, eyes looking past me. “Freedom. Right.”

Spoken as if she read my mind.

The statement goes flawlessly.Ava is perfect, her hand in mine, her smile convincing. She speaks about our unexpected connection, about our love. We swear that the documents Blackwell produced are elaborate forgeries. We lie again, and again, and again.

When we’re finally alone after the cameras leave, she pulls her hand from mine almost immediately.

“Do you think they boughtit?” she asks.

“You were very convincing.”

“I’ve had lots of practice.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. She stands. “I’m going to change.”

I watch her walk away, the precise click of her heels on the marble floor like a countdown timer to our end.

Later that night, I find myself outside her bedroom door, hand raised to knock. On the other side, I hear her moving around, the soft melody of some sad song playing. I lower my hand.

Let her go.

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