Page 150 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Plus a nice fat settlement,I remind myself.

But was it worth it?

I glance at the wall separating our bedrooms and feel a dull ache in my chest.

Stop it. You’re not doing this to yourself today.

Before I can reconsider, I march across the penthouse to Gideon’s room. Just to check if there’s anything of mine in there. That’s all. A perfectly reasonable thing to do when packing up.

Right.

His room smells exactly like him. That expensive cologne with notes of blood-orange and amber, mixed with something uniquely Gideon. I inhale deeply, letting it wash over me. My heart twists with a pain so sharp it’s almost physical.

Pathetic. You’re literally smelling his sheets like some lovesick teenager.

I move toward his closet, telling myself I’m looking for any of my clothes that might have migrated there. Instead, I find myself touching his perfectly pressed shirts, running my fingers along the soft cashmere of his sweaters.

I wander into his home office. His desk catches my eye. The glass one where we... no. Not going there.

I’m about to leave when I notice the drawer is slightly ajar. The responsible thing would be to close it and walk away.

I pull it open.

Snooping through his stuff now? New low, Ava.

Inside is a sleek folder with no label. Probably just business documents. None of my business.

I open it.

The first page makes my blood run cold. It’s an email from Gideon to... Mark Blackwell? Datedbefore our marriage even began. My heart hammers against my ribs as I scan the contents.

“...our mutual arrangement should proceed as discussed...” “...after the marriage situation is resolved...” “...media strategy to maximize impact...”

With trembling hands, I flip to the next page. It’s labeled “Media Strategy” in bold letters. My eyes catch phrases that make me feel physically ill:

“...revelations about trading sexual favors for financial backing...” “...used her body to secure gallery space...” “...undermining subject’s artistic credibility...” “...redirecting attention from her work to her personal choices...”

And the timing... I stare at the date on the document until it blurs. These “revelations” are scheduled to drop exactly on the opening night of my gallery. The gallery I’ve already put a deposit on. The gallery that was supposed to be my big moment. The gallery where I’ve already got a small army of designers and PR people working around the clock, surviving on espresso and promises. Where Lucy, who I’m pretty sure hasn’t slept in days, is coordinating lighting installations while simultaneously sweet-talking collectors into loaning pieces that complement my Brooklyn series.

That gallery.

Of course. Because why just break my heart when you can crush my dreams too?

I’d planned the rushed opening for one week before our marriage officially ended. My own little poetic gesture. A farewell exhibit that showcased my work while I was still technically Ava King. Stupid, romantic me thought it might even mean something to him.

And Gideon knew the exact date.How could he not? He’d signed the personal guarantee that let me secure the space in the first place. A bridge loan of sorts until I could cash in the full divorce settlement and pay for the gallery outright, not to mention cover the salaries of the small army helping me get it ready for launch date.

He wasn’t just planning to humiliate me. He was going to do it at the exact moment when I was most vulnerable, most exposed. When everything I’ve worked for was finally within reach.

My stomach churns as the pieces click into place. The gallery opening invitation is probably sitting on Blackwell’s desk right now, with a big red circle around the date and “DESTROY HER CAREER” scrawled across it in Gideon’s perfect handwriting.

My gaze focuses on that damning line, “trading sexual favors,” and my vision blurs. The room suddenly feels too hot, the walls closing in. I can’t breathe.

This can’t be real. This can’t be Gideon. The same man who held me at night, who hung my paintings on his walls, who...

Who made you fall in love with him while planning to destroy you all along.

I hear the front door open. His familiar footsteps echo through the penthouse.

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