Page 157 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Thank you,” I reply.

As I exit with my security team, I take one last look at Ava. She’s smiling at something someone said, but her eyes are scanning the room again. Looking for me? Looking for trouble? I can’t tell.

What I do know is that I’m not giving up.

The brisk air hits my face as we step outside.

Diana and Michael, Ava’s security detail, nod when they see me.

I get into the waiting car. I close my eyes briefly, picturing her face, her paintings, the story of us told through her brushstrokes.

Tonight, I’ll tell her my side of the story. Tonight, I’ll fight for us.

But today belongs to her.

52

Ava

The gallery’s overhead lights dim automatically at 10 PM, leaving only the strategic spotlights that highlight each painting. I’m alone with my thoughts and the ghosts of my artwork staring back at me. Well, not completely alone. Diana and Michael stand guard outside the main entrance, my personal security detail still religiously following Gideon’s protocols even though our marriage is basically toilet paper at this point.

I slump onto the minimalist bench in the center of the main room, kicking off my heels. My feet ache almost as much as my heart, and that’s saying something considering I’ve been standing for about fourteen hours straight.

Nothing says ‘successful gallery opening’ like feet that feel like they’ve been dragged barefoot across hot coals and broken glass.

Honestly, I can’t believe the opening went so well. Nothing in the gallery itself collapsed, which is honestly a miracle considering we put it together in about the time it takes most people to assemble anIKEA bookshelf. The track lighting I was convinced would come crashing down during some collector’s earnest analysis stayed firmly attached to the ceiling. Even the baseboards held.

Small victories, I guess.

There were no scandalous revelations, either. No hushed whispers following me through the crowd. No reporters ambushing me with questions about trading sexual favors for wall space.

Nothing.

Could I have been wrong?

“What are you playing at, Gideon?” I whisper to the empty gallery.

For a split second during the reception, I thought I saw him. That unmistakable dark hair, broad shoulders, and imposing height that somehow manages to fill any room he enters. But when I looked again, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd of New York’s art elite pretending to understand my work.

I stand up, padding barefoot across the polished concrete floor to adjust the angle of a spotlight that’s been bothering me all night.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Lucy again.

“How’s the afterglow of success?” she asks when I pick up.

“Lonely,” I admit, settling back onto the bench. “But I’ll survive.”

“Did he come yet?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Redwood. You know exactly who.”

I sigh, tracing random patterns on the concrete with my big toe. “I thought I saw him during the reception, but he disappeared. Probably just my imagination playing cruel tricks.”

“Or maybe he was actually there but wanted to respect your space,” Lucy suggests, her voice taking on that tone she uses when she thinks I’m being particularly dense. “You should hear him out if he shows up.”

“Why are you suddenly Team Gideon? I told you about those documents. He was working with Blackwell the whole time.”

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