Page 15 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Before I can answer her, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s a calendar alert about tomorrow’s board meeting. The intrusion of reality is jarring, reminding me that in a few hours I’ll be back in the boardroom, making decisions that affect thousands of people’s livelihoods. This interlude with Ava is just that. A temporary divergence from the path I’ve chosen.

I’ve never been one for morning-afters. One night. That’s my rule. No complications, no expectations, no vulnerability. Particularly since a certain bitch almost bankrupted me while fucking her way through me and my bank account.

Ava seems to read something in my expression. She withdraws slightly, physically present but emotionally retreating. “This was just one night, like we agreed?”

“I don’t do relationships,” I confirm, the words coming out more coldly than intended.

She nods, unsurprised. “I figured. Men like you rarely do.”

“Men like me?”

“Powerful. Self-contained. Complicated.” She draws invisible circles on my chest. “It’s fine. I’m not exactly relationship material either. As I’m sure you saw by my awkwardness last night.”

She’s giving me an easy out, sparing me the morning conversation where I explain that this can’t happen again. I should be relieved. Instead, I feel an inexplicable urge to challenge her assessment.

But I don’t. Because she’s right. We exist in different worlds. She’s a young artist just starting her career, with paint under her fingernails and passion in her eyes. I’m a billionaire with trust issues and a company to run. Mixing personal and professional never works. I learned that lesson a few years ago at the cost of seventy million dollars and what little faith in humanity I had left.

Fuck, I hate how right she is. How easy she’s making this for me. I wonder if I should kick her out right now, knowing it will get harder and harder to do so with every moment I let her stay.

But Ava’s breathing deepens, signaling her return to sleep. Her grip on me tightens slightly, as if even unconsciously she’s trying to hold onto me and this moment, knowing how ephemeral it is. I allow myself to stroke her hair once, twice, before stopping.

It’s really too bad we won’t see each other again. She was interesting. Different.

But some paths are meant to cross only briefly, leaving nothing but memories and the faint scent of vanilla, linseed, and turpentine on my sheets.

5

Ava

Iwake to unfamiliar silk sheets. Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a bedroom roughly the size of my entire apartment. For a split second, I can’t remember where I am or how I got here, until fragments of last night come rushing back.

Oh god. I slept with Gideon King.

I close my eyes and consider the possibility of suffocating myself with one of his ridiculously fluffy pillows.

I hear a toilet flush somewhere. Maybe I can grab my clothes and make a dignified escape before he returns.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and remember I’m butt naked.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Good morning to you, too.”

I snap my head up to find Gideon leaning against the door frame of what must be the en-suite bathroom. He’s already dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and tailored pants, looking annoyingly put-together. His dark hair is still damp from a shower, and he’s watching me with an intensity that makes me acutely aware I’m completely naked.

“Water?” He offers. His voice is cool, detached. Different from the warm, engaging tone of last night.

I clutch the sheet to my chest, suddenly self-conscious. I take the glass, swallowing the water quickly. “Thanks. I should get going.” I glance around the room, looking for my underwear and black dress. “Um, have you seen—”

“In the dryer.”

I cross my arms. “You washed my clothes without my permission?”

He shrugs. “Your dress had some champagne on it. Figured while I was at it I’d throw in your bra and panties, too. Seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. A shirt you can borrow in the meantime.” He nods toward the foot of the bed where I notice one of his dress shirts neatly folded.

“How thoughtful,” I mumble, reaching for it. I manage to awkwardly slip it on under the sheets.

Once I’ve buttoned it up, I stand, grateful the shirt falls to mid-thighs. Gideon’s eyes track the movement, lingering on my bare legs. Last night, that look would have melted me. Now, in the harsh morning light, it just makes me feel exposed.

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