Page 2 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I take another gulp of champagne. "Are you sure they weren’t saying ‘the sweaty mess in the corner?’”

“Positive.” She scans the gallery. “So, have you spotted him yet?”

“Who?”

“Gideon King, obviously.” She lowers her voice.

My stomach does an uncomfortable flip. “I may have... um... already had an...encounterwith him.”

“Already? When?”

“I mistook him for catering staff and asked him to set out some champagne,” I mutter through barely moving lips.

Her eyes widen comically. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

To Lucy’s credit, she stifles her laugh. “Well, at least you made an impression. That man has probably heard every form of bootlickery in existence. No one’s ever mistaken him for the help.”

“Fantastic. I’ve pioneered a new form of career suicide.”

“Or a new form of standing out.” She loops her arm through mine. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my father’s gallery contact. He’s loaded and loves supporting ‘undiscovered talent.’”

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and rehearsed explanations of my artistic process. I find myself gradually relaxing as people seem genuinely interested in my work. Professor Marshall from Parsons stops by briefly, giving my shoulder a supportive squeeze and offering encouraging words.

Several times I notice Gideon King moving through the crowd with easy confidence. He speaks to few people, instead studying the artwork with intense focus. Occasionally, our eyes meet across the room, and I quickly look away, my cheeks warming traitorously each time.

Near the end of that hour, while I’m giving an explanation of my techniques to a couple, I find myself almost back to normal, relaxed enough that my passion for the work overshadows nearly all the anxiety I felt earlier.

“The blend of structured elements against the more chaotic strokes represents the tension in urban settings,” I explain, gesturing with my champagne glass (when did I pick up another one?). “It’s about finding beauty in—”

I suddenly smell that characteristic citrus, amber and woodsmoke cologne and know Gideon is behind me. Like, directly behind me.

And that’s when disaster strikes.

My animated champagne glass, held aloft to illustrate some obscure artistic principle,catches on the pendant light above us. The glass tilts, and I pivot in an effort to stop it.

No no no no!

Time seems to slow as golden liquid arcs gracefully through the air, powered by my unfortunate combination of artistic passion and zero spatial awareness.

Noooooo...

It’s a horrifying parabola that ends directly on Gideon King’s immaculate charcoal suit.

The champagne splashes across his chest and stomach, instantly creating a dark stain that spreads like a silent scream across the expensive fabric.

The gallery around us falls silent. I can practically hear the collective intake of breath from nearby onlookers.

“Oh my god,” I squeak, mortification burning through me like wildfire. “I’m so— I can’t believe— let me—”

I grab cocktail napkins from a nearby table with my free hand and begin frantically dabbing at his chest, which only seems to make the stain worse. My face is burning so intensely I can feel sweat beading along my hairline. This isn’t just embarrassment; this is career euthanasia.

“Ms. Redwood.” His voice is deep and steady.

I freeze mid-dab. He knows my name?

Wait.

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