Page 155 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

He’s going to somehow embarrass me on the most important day of my life.

The deposit on the gallery is already paid, and the bridge loan is in place. But that doesn’t mean the sale can’t be canceled. I’d have to double check the contract. On a whim, I take out a sheet of paper and begin drafting a sale cancellation letter, then tear it up halfway through. No. I won’t hide. If Gideon and Blackwell want to expose me at the opening, I’ll face it with dignity.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The worst part isn’t even that he betrayed me. It’s that I still can’t bring myself to hate him.

I pick up my phone, my finger hovering over the “unblock” button for a moment before I toss it aside.

No. He made his choice, and now I’ve made mine. I click the delete button, removing his number from my phone entirely.

I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, I see paintings in my mind. Canvases I haven’t created yet. Dark, angry slashes of color. A landscape shattered by lightning. A portrait torn in half.

Maybe that’s my way forward. Turn this pain into art, like I’ve always done.

Your heart isn’t the first canvas he’s shattered, and it won’t be the last.

But it will be the last time anyone breaksme.

51

Gideon

Istand in my penthouse living room, surrounded by her artwork that still hangs on the walls. I couldn’t bring myself to take them down, despite her instructions when she stormed out.

Yes, I left them exactly where they were, as if removing them would somehow make her absence more permanent. The paintings watch me like sentinels, each brushstroke a reminder of what I’ve lost. Her packed bags still sit in her room, untouched. She’ll have to come back for them eventually. If she calls movers, I won’t let them in, not unless she comes herself. It’s pathetic, I know, but it’s at least one guarantee that I’ll see her again.

“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Diana, part of Ava’s security detail.

She’s still at the gallery working on final preparations. Hasn’t left in 72 hours.

I feel a pang in my chest. Knowing where she is doesn’t make it any easier. Diana and Michael havecontinued reporting to me, of course. I’ve considered stopping by a dozen times.

But I’ve held back.

Not because I don’t have the words. I have plenty. I have evidence and explanations and the fucking truth on my side. But would any of it matter? Would she even listen?

No. Not now. Not while she’s still raw and working against the clock. Not while she believes I’m planning to destroy her at her own opening.

She needs to see that nothing happens. That her gallery opens without the public humiliation she’s expecting. Only then might she be willing to hear me out.

And I won’t disrupt her focus now. This gallery opening means everything to her. She’s worked her entire life for this moment. The last thing she needs is me showing up, sending her into an emotional tailspin days before her debut.

So I wait. And it’s fucking killing me.

Tomorrow, I’ll attend her gallery opening. Not to confront her, not with crowds around, but to witness her triumph.

To ensure our counter-strategy worked.

To see her.

The Chelsea galleryspace is transformed. When I arrive, it’s already crowded with New York’s art elite. I adjust my tie and keep to the periphery, watching. Ray and James, my primary security detail, flank me discreetly, maintaining distance while keeping watchful eyes on the room.

I admit I’m a little surprised she finished in time,considering the tight timeline.

Then again, it’s Ava. So what did I expect?

And then I see her.

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