Page 162 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Tears prick at my eyes again, but they’re different from the ones I’ve shed all week. “I’d like that,” Iwhisper, leaning down to press my lips to his. “I’d like that very much.”

As sleep begins to claim me, wrapped securely in the warmth of his arms, I think about the paintings I created during our time together. How they traced the evolution of what I thought was just a convenient arrangement into something real and lasting. Maybe I’ll create a new series, I decide drowsily. One that captures not just the pain and confusion of falling unexpectedly in love, but the joy of that love being returned.

Tomorrow, we’ll have more to discuss. Practical matters like what happens with the trust and the gallery and all the other loose ends of our previous arrangement. But tonight, for the first time since this all began, I fall asleep with no walls between us, no pretenses, and no doubts about where I belong.

Right here, with him.

53

Gideon

Morning light filters through the windows, casting a golden glow across Ava’s sleeping form. I’ve been awake for hours, watching her breathe, still hardly believing she’s back in my bed.

Ourbed.

My chest tightens each time I remember how close I came to losing her forever. All over a misunderstanding.

I slip out from under the sheets, careful not to wake her. There’s something I need to prepare before she wakes up.

In my home office, I unlock the safe hidden behind a painting. Not one of hers. One of the few original pieces I kept on the walls after I replaced most of my collection with her work. Inside the safe lies a small velvet box I purchased yesterday before the gallery opening. I tuck it into my pocket and begin drafting something on my computer.

By the time I hear her stirring, I’ve printed the document and am brewing coffee in the kitchen.

“I thought maybe I dreamed last night,” she says, padding into the kitchen wearing only my shirt from yesterday. How I love seeing her wear my clothes. Her hair is a beautiful wild mess of curls, her lips still slightly swollen from a night of kisses.

God, she’s so fucking perfect.

“If it was a dream, we had the same one.” I hand her a mug of coffee, brushing my fingers deliberately against hers. “Two sugars, splash of cream.”

She smiles, taking a sip. “You remember how I like it.”

“I remember everything about you, Ava.” The intensity of my own voice surprises me. “Even the things you think I don’t notice.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Like what?”

I take her hand. “Like how you always bite your lower lip when you’re nervous. How you turn your head slightly to the left when you’re concentrating on a painting. How you hum without realizing it when you’re mixing colors.”

She blushes, a red glow spreading down her neck. “I don’t hum.”

“You do.” I tuck a curl behind her ear. “It’s barely audible. And always the same melody, though I’ve never been able to place it.”

“Now that I think about it, you’re right, I sometimes do. It’s a lullaby my grandmother used to sing while she painted.” Her voice softens. “You noticed.”

“There’s a lot you don’t realize I’ve noticed.”

“Wait here,” she says, setting down her coffee mug. “There’s something I need to show you.”

I watch as she disappears down the hallway toward her bedroom. The one I couldn’t bring myself to enter after she left.

She returns a moment later, carrying a canvasthat’s been carefully wrapped in cloth. Her fingers tremble slightly as she unwraps it and places it on the countertop.

“I packed this with my things before I found those documents,” she explains.

It’s a painting I’ve never seen before. A chaotic storm of color and texture contained by a single silver-white line running horizontally across the canvas. A line barely visible yet somehow holding the entire tumultuous composition together.

“I painted this the day after we met with the lawyers for the last time,” she says softly, her fingers tracing the horizon line. “When they were talking about asset separation and returning to original living arrangements.”

“It’s beautiful,” I tell her, moving to stand beside her. The raw emotion captured in each brushstroke makes my chest tighten. “What does it represent?”

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