Page 156 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

My stomach tightens.

She stands near the center of the main gallery, wearing a sleek black dress, her dark curls pulled back in an elegant twist. She’s smiling at a collector, but I can see the strain beneath it. Her eyes scan the room constantly, shoulders tense, as if waiting for disaster to strike at any moment.

“She thinks you’re going to humiliate her tonight,” Ray murmurs beside me.

“I know.” The irony isn’t lost on me. The counter-strategy I implemented to protect her has become the very thing she fears.

As is usual at events like these, people give me space. And not just because of my security team, but mypresence. It’s my blessing and my curse. Which means I’ll have to stay well away from Ava if I don’t want her to spot me.

Keeping my distance, I move through the space, viewing her new collection. Each piece tells our story through abstract emotional landscapes. Trust, passion, contentment, and then the shattering. The betrayal. One painting in particular catches my eye: a masculine figure extending what appears to be a gentle hand, but hidden within the brushstrokes is a knife. The other arm holds a gift... another painting. The title reads simply: “What I Should Have Seen.”

Seeing our relationship through her eyes is like being gutted. The depth of her feelings for me, and the depth of her pain, is laid bare on these canvases for anyone to see.

A few art world socialites notice me lurking on the periphery. They approach with practicedsmiles and empty flattery. But I always cut them off with curt nods and clipped responses. In another setting, I might tolerate the networking, the subtle probing of information. Not today. My usual mask of polite indifference has been replaced by something sharper, a clear message: stay the fuck away. Eventually, people get the hint.

And then:

“She loved you,” a familiar voice says beside me.

I turn to find Lucy standing there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Loves,” I correct. “Present tense.”

“That’s pretty fucking presumptuous after what you did.” Her voice is cool, but there’s a question in her eyes.

I hold her gaze. “I didn’t do what she thinks I did.”

“Then what did you do?”

I hand her a portfolio. “Read this. Then decide if I’m worth helping.”

Lucy takes it, hesitation visible on her face.

“I’m not asking you to convince her,” I say. “Just give me a chance to explain directly. That’s all I want.”

She tucks the portfolio under her arm. “I’ll read it. For her sake, not yours.”

“Thank you.” I return my attention to the gallery, looking for Ava again.

She’s surrounded by admirers, art critics, potential buyers. The soft lighting catches the gold flecks in her eyes as she gestures toward one of her pieces, explaining her technique. This should be her moment of triumph, but I can see how she braces herself with each new person who approaches, waiting for the public humiliation she believes is coming.

For an instant I consider approaching her. But no, this isn’t the right moment. Confronting her here, surrounded by the art world elite, would only push her further away. She deserves better than that.

I wait another hour, watching her from a distance. She’s constantly surrounded. This is her night, after all. The culmination of her dreams. And despite everything, I’m proud of her.

Lucy finds me and returns the portfolio. “I read it. You should show it to her.”

“I will. When will this place empty out?”

“After nine,” Lucy says.

I nod. “I’ll be back then.”

“Should I tell her to expect you?” Lucy asks.

I consider for a moment. “No. Let her have her moment without distractions. Just make sure she’s still here.”

“She’ll be here. I’ll tell her... that if you show up again, she should give you a chance to talk.”

---