Page 19 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

In the elevator down to the lobby, I lean against the wall, feeling slightly sick.

I think the same thing I thought last night.

How will I ever have any other man after him?

Gideon King has ruined me.

The walk of shame is short. The driver is waiting as promised, opening the car door with a practiced flourish. As I slide into the backseat of the custom-built Cadillac, I catch my reflection in the tinted window. Slightly disheveled hair, lips still swollen from his kisses, eyes too bright.

“Address, miss?” the driver asks.

I hesitate for a moment, then give him my address. A small part of me hopes the driver saves it to his GPS so he can someday give it to Gideon. You know, when the billionaire realizes the grave mistake he’s made.

I smile sadly, knowing that day will never come.

Gideon doesn’t do relationships,I remind myself.Some fairy tales are just meant to be one-chapter stories, even if its the most deliciously written chapter of the entire sad book.

I lean back against the soft leather seat, watching the gleaming tower of Gideon’s building disappear behind us.

6

Gideon

The boardroom falls silent as I enter. Ten executives straighten in their chairs, conversations dying mid-sentence. I don’t acknowledge them immediately, letting the weight of my presence do the talking. The floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan’s skyline behind me. A reminder of what I’ve built, what I protect.

“Quarterly projections,” I say, setting my laptop on the polished mahogany table. “Let’s start with residential developments.”

For two hours, I listen to reports, challenge assumptions, and approve strategies with the same cold efficiency that’s built my empire. I’m back to being Gideon King, billionaire, not the man who spent a night with an artist whose paintings still haunt me. Not the man who broke his cardinal rule and fucked her a second time on my desk before walking away.

That was a fucking stupid mistake. I’m done making mistakes like that.

The meeting ends. Numbers and strategiesdissected, weaknesses identified, solutions implemented. The executives filter out, shoulders relaxing once they escape my scrutiny. Only Jonas remains, his face tight with an expression I recognize too well.

“You have that look,” I say once the door closes.

Jonas loosens his tie. “We need to talk.”

“About?”

“Blackwell.”

I feel a muscle tighten in my jaw. Mark Blackwell. The sixty-something real estate vulture with a tech portfolio and an old grudge. “What’s he done now?”

Jonas pulls out his tablet and slides it across to me. “There’s been unusual movement in our stock. Small acquisitions through shell companies, board members suddenly unavailable for our calls.”

I scan the data, recognizing the pattern immediately. “He’s positioning for a takeover.”

“Looks that way.” Jonas runs a hand through his sandy hair. “We’ve tracked fifteen separate entities acquiring positions. All lead back to him.”

“Fuck.” I pace to the window, staring at the skyline I’ve helped shape. “How much time do we have?”

“Days. Maybe a week before he makes his move public.”

I turn back to face my cousin, my CFO. The one man I trust completely. “Get everyone in my office in thirty minutes. Legal team, PR, security. And get me everything we have on Blackwell’s recent activities.”

The next three hours are a war room session. Our intelligence confirms what Jonas suspected. Blackwell has been systematically working to turn my board members and key investors against me. His approach isn’t just business; it’s personal. He wants to humiliate me, strip away what I’ve built, reduceme to nothing. Just as Celeste nearly did four years ago.

“We can implement a poison pill,” our lead counsel suggests, referencing a defensive strategy that would make a hostile takeover prohibitively expensive.

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