Page 165 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Please,” I accept the drink, grateful for the cold glass against my suddenly warm hand. “It’s probably just sweat. Do you know how many people have asked me about my ‘creative process’ tonight? I’m running out of fancy ways to say ‘I slap paint around until it feels right.’”

Lucy laughs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the slight furrow between her perfectly shaped brows. Her phone chimes, and her expression darkens as she checks it.

“It’s the office again,” she sighs, tapping out a quick response. “I should have known dad would need me to put out another fire before I could enjoy one full evening off.”

“You’re working too hard,” I tell her, concern replacing my moment of triumph. “Hammond & Co. isn’t your entire responsibility, no matter what your father implies.”

Lucy’s perfectly glossed lips press into a thin line. “The company’s in trouble, Ava. Serious trouble. Dad’s made some questionable decisions, and now Mark Blackwell is circling like a shark.”

“Blackwell?” Gideon’s voice makes me jump as he slides an arm around my waist. The comforting scent of his cologne, the bright citrus notes over something deeper, more primal, envelops me. “If Mark Blackwell is involved, you need to be careful.”

His arm tightens protectively, and I lean into him, our bodies remembering our own battle with the ruthless businessman. Six months ago feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.

“The son, actually,” Lucy clarifies, her voice hardening. “Christopher Blackwell. Apparently, he’s as ruthless as his father, just with better tech skills and a more dangerous smile.”

Great. Blackwell 2.0. Because one sociopathic businessman per friend group wasn’t enough.

Gideon exchanges a meaningful look with me, his gray eyes communicating volumes. “If you need any help dealing with the Blackwells...”

Lucy’s phone chimes again, more insistently this time. “I appreciate it, but I need to handle this myself. Hammond & Co. is my responsibility.” She leans in to kiss my cheek, the familiar scent of her perfume momentarily overpowering everything else. “I’ve got a meeting at Javits Center tomorrow morning. Apparently Christopher Blackwell will be there. Time to face the enemy.”

As Lucy hurries toward the exit, her designer heels clicking purposefully across the hardwood floors, Gideon pulls me closer. “Should we help her anyway?”

I watch my friend disappear through the door, determination in every step. “I thinkChristopher Blackwell is the one who needs helping. Lucy’s tougher than she looks.”

Still, first thing tomorrow I’m calling her. Nobody messes with my best friend.

“By the way,” Gideon says, his voice dropping to that intimate register that still makes my stomach flip, “the trust documents are ready for your signature. I had Jonas email them your way.”

The words take a moment to process through the noise of the gallery and the fatigue of standing for hours in these stupid but gorgeous shoes. “The foundation papers?”

He nods, a rare soft smile transforming his usually serious face. “The Ava King Foundation is officially ready to launch. Once established, no one, not even your stepfather, could ever interfere with a scholarship recipient’s future again.”

Tears spring to my eyes unbidden, and I blink rapidly, conscious of my carefully applied makeup.

Not now, hormones. I refuse to become a sobbing mess in front of all these art critics.

“We’re really doing this,” I whisper, squeezing his hand.

“You’redoing this,” he corrects, his voice gentle. “I’m just the money man.” His hand moves to rest on my barely-there bump, warm and steady through the fabric of my dress. “And this little artist-in-training is helping, too.”

The simple gesture makes my throat tighten. Six months ago, we were playing roles in an elaborate charade. Now, standing in my own gallery, with Gideon’s ring on my finger (the new one, not the business arrangement diamond) and our child growing inside me, the reality of how much has changed hits me full force.

“Maybe we should name the baby after a famous artist,” I suggest, blinking back another wave of emotion. “How about Picasso King? Or Frida King?”

Gideon chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Let’s rain check that discussion for now. What about Rembrandt for a middle name?”

“Hey says ‘let’s rain check the discussion’ then throws out a middle name!” I laugh, tension releasing from my shoulders. “You’re awful. But seriously, thank you. For everything. Not just the foundation.”

“Stop thanking me,” he murmurs against my hair. “This is what partners do.”

A well-dressed couple approaches, and I recognize the woman as a major collector who’s been eying my largest piece all evening. Gideon’s hand gives mine a supportive squeeze before he steps slightly back, allowing me to take center stage.

Six months ago, when he gave me the new ring, I was worried he’d somehow overshadow me. Now I’m grateful for how he instinctively knows when to support me and when to step aside.

“Mrs. Rothstein! I’m so glad you could make it,” I say, extending my hand. “What do you think of ‘Threshold’? I noticed you’ve been returning to it.”

As I slip into gallery owner mode, answering questions and discussing my process, I catch Gideon watching me with undisguised pride. The look in his eyes makes my cheeks warm despite my professional composure.

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