Page 21 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I stare at her. “You want me to get married?”

“Let me explain.” She opens the folder. “By transferring assets to an SAPT, you could funda parallel investment entity managed by your spouse. This entity can acquire additional shares through a derivative structure that Blackwell can’t touch.”

“And this would stop him how, exactly?”

“The key is in the SEC disclosure requirements,” another attorney, Gerald, explains. “Only a legal spouse can create this arrangement without triggering beneficial ownership disclosures that would alert Blackwell to the countermove.”

I lean back, processing. “You’re telling me the only way to protect everything I’ve built is to get married? Immediately?”

“Yes,” Ella confirms.

“You said it yourself,” Jonas agrees. “Sometimes survival requires sacrifice.”

Ella nods. “But there’s more you should understand. The marriage must appear genuine to withstand scrutiny, but actual emotional attachment would complicate the exit strategy. When this crisis passes, dissolving the arrangement could become messy if real feelings develop.”

I laugh bitterly. “Find another way.”

Jonas gives me a look, but says nothing.

“I’m not getting married,” I tell them.

They leave, and I pour myself two fingers of scotch, staring at the city lights. The same lights I stared at with Ava three nights ago, before I took her to my bed and broke all my rules. Before I sent her away the next morning, knowing I’d never see her again.

My phone buzzes. Jonas.

“What?” I answer.

“Blackwell’s accelerated his timeline. He’s meeting with the Danvers Group tomorrow. If they flip, we lose our largest institutional investor.”

“Shit.” I down the scotch. “Get back here.”

Jonas returns in twenty minutes, and I’ve already gone through every scenario in my head. Each one ends the same way.

“I need a wife,” I say when he walks in.

He doesn’t look surprised. “I figured you’d come around. Any candidates in mind?”

I mentally review the women in my social circle. Vanessa Clarke? Too connected to Blackwell’s daughter. And too annoying. Rebecca from the charity board? Too hungry for status, she’d leverage the situation. Sarah from the museum committee? Too shrewd, she’d see through it instantly and demand a real commitment.

My eyes drift to the painting on my wall. The one I quietly purchased from Ava’s show the day after I sent her packing. A swirl of colors that somehow capture both passion and restraint, vulnerability and strength. Like the woman herself.

“Ava Redwood,” I say, the name leaving my lips before I’ve fully processed the thought.

Jonas follows my gaze to the painting. “The artist? The one you...”

“Yes.”

I told him all about Ava. Our one night stand. The painting. I don’t keep secrets from him.

He seems doubtful. “You think she’d agree to this?”

“Everyone has a price.” The words sound hollow even to me. “She’s in debt from art school. She needs exposure for her work. I can offer both.”

“And you think you can keep it strictly business? After you’ve already...”

“That was physical. This would be contractual.” I turn away from the painting. “She’s perfectfor this. She’s unknown in business circles, has no connections to Blackwell, and has legitimate artistic credibility. The press will eat up the story of the billionaire falling for the struggling artist.”

Jonas looks skeptical. “If you say so.”

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