Page 153 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“You’re a miracle worker.” I climb down from the stepladder, wiping my hands on my already paint-splattered jeans. I’ve been working non-stop for four days, sleeping on a mattress I dragged from my Brooklyn studio to the back room of the gallery.

Four days since you found those documents. Four days since you walked out.

A crash from the back room makes us both jump. “Sorry!” calls Marco, the lead carpenter. “Just some scrap drywall.” I hear muffled cursing in Italian as his crew continues dismantling the wall that formerly separated the storage area from the exhibition space. The sledgehammers have been pounding all morning, sending fine dust floating through shafts of sunlight.

An electrician with a tool belt that weighs more than I do taps me on the shoulder. “Ms. Redwood? We need to talk about these gallery corners. The junction boxes won’t support the lighting load you want.” He shows me a diagram on his tablet that might as well be hieroglyphics. I nod like I understand, which seems to satisfy him. “We’ll need to rewire and install a dedicated circuit.” More costs, but what’s another few thousand at this point?

“Do it.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’s Gideon. Again. That makes call number twenty-seven since I left. Not that I’m counting.

“Are you going to answer that?” Lucy asks, her eyebrows raised. She doesn’t know the full story yet.Just that Gideon and I had a “fight.” The understatement of the century.

“Nope.” I silence it without looking at the screen.

“He knows where I am,” I say out loud.

Lucy nods. “Your security detail is standing watch outside the gallery. Of course he knows. He can come here whenever he wants.”

That’s the problem, isn’t it? He hasn’t. For a split second I remember how I’ve been secretly expecting Gideon to just show up here. To fight for me. To explain everything.

And then what? He’d sweep you into his arms and you’d forgive him for planning to publicly humiliate you? Get real, Ava.

“The lighting crew will be here at three,” I say, changing the subject. “Can you supervise them?”

“No problem. I’ll have them coordinate with the electrician. I also need to check on the flooring crew. They’re almost done with the south section.” Lucy gestures toward where two workers are carefully installing the specialized gallery flooring that won’t damage fallen artwork. “And the air conditioning guys are finally fixing that temperature fluctuation issue. The head technician promised it would be gallery-ready by tomorrow.”

I nod. “Looks like everything is in good hands. I need to sort through the rest of my pieces from my Brooklyn studio.”

She smiles, and then lets me go.

The remaining Brooklyn paintings. The ones I created during my time with Gideon. The ones that now feel like evidence of my own stupidity. I don’t really want to sort through them.

But I have to. I don’t have enough abstracts and collector loans to fill up the spacewithout them.

I weave through the chaos, stepping over extension cords, dodging a carpenter carrying a beam, and narrowly avoiding a paint tray. Why did I ever pick such a rushed opening date? It looms like a literal guillotine blade over my neck.

Let’s be real, there’s a solid chance I won’t make it. Part of me thinks that might be a blessing in disguise. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Miss the date, reschedule, avoid Gideon and Blackwell’s character assassination plot. Simple. Logical. But my worry is, if I don’t open on that exact date, I might never open at all. I’d find reasons. Excuses. My stomach twists. No. I’d rather face whatever humiliation Gideon has planned than spend another day hiding my art, and myself, from the world.

We’re going to open whether we’re ready or not.

In the back room, I unwrap the first canvas carefully. It’s the Manhattan skyline piece I painted the night after our first intimate encounter in his work office. The city glows with an almost otherworldly warmth, buildings stretching toward a night sky streaked with silver and gold. One of the clouds in the sky is vaguely shaped like a heart.

Was I really this transparent? Might as well have titled it ‘I’m Falling For You, You Manipulative Jerk.’

I set it against the wall and unwrap the next one. And the next. Each painting a chronicle of my feelings for Gideon, laid bare in brushstrokes and color.

By the time I reach the last canvas, the dark piece with masculine hands holding both a gift and a knife, my cheeks are wet. I didn’t even realize I was crying.

At least I don’t have any of my penthouse studio pieces.

I left those packed up in my room when I stormed out. Those would be too much for me to handle in my current state. Especially the one with the silver-white horizon line I painted after the final lawyer meeting, the line that represented Gideon.

I shake my head, the thought raw and painful.

Pull yourself together. You have a gallery to open.

The sound of Lucy’s heels clicking across the concrete floor gives me just enough warning to wipe my face before she appears in the doorway.

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