Page 22 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Have the team pull together everything we have on her. Full background check. I want to know her weaknesses, her desires, what would motivate her to agree.” I pause, remembering the vulnerability in her eyes when she spoke about her art. “And I want a contract drafted with specific provisions for her artistic career. Gallery shows, connections, funding for her work.”

“And a clause about emotional attachment?” Jonas asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. Explicit language that this is a business arrangement only. No emotional entanglement.” I turn back to the painting, remembering how her body responded to mine, how she looked at me with such openness. How good shetasted. “That needs to be crystal clear. Also, I want you to engage an external firm. I don’t want this traceable back to our corporate legal team.”

Jonas makes notes. “Got it. I’ll contact Dean Wess at the gallery where you found her.”

An hour later, he returns looking frustrated. “Wess is on a buying trip in Europe. Won’t be back for days.”

“We don’t have days. What about gallery records?”

“Privacy policies. They won’t release contact information.”

I check my watch. Nearly midnight. “Blackwell’s meeting with three more board members tomorrow. We need to find her within 48 hours.”

“I’ll put our best people on it.”

“Not good enough.” I stand, suddenly restless. “Use whatever resources necessary. Private investigators, data mining, whatever it takes.”

“Gideon, are you sure about this? There are other women who might be easier to—”

“I’m sure.” I cut him off, moving to stand before the painting again. Something about it, abouther, just feels right for this. Perfect, actually. “She saw through my bullshit that night. She didn’t care about my money or my name. That’s exactly the kind of person Blackwell wouldn’t expect.”

Jonas sighs. “If you’re certain.”

“I am.” I stare at the painting, seeing not just the colors and lines, but Ava’s face as she’d looked at me that morning, wounded but head held high as she’d walked out of my life. “Find her, whatever it takes. We have less than 48 hours. Talk to my driver, see where he took her. Talk to the gallery staff.”

As Jonas leaves, I remain standing before the painting. The irony isn’t lost on me. After walking away from Ava with such finality, here I am, desperate to find her, to bind her to me through a legal contract. Not because I want her, I tell myself. But because I need what she represents. An unknown variable Blackwell can’t anticipate, a shield against attack.

But as I stare at the swirls of color that somehow captured the essence of who she is, I wonder if I’m lying to myself again. Just as I lied when I told her our night together was a beautiful mistake that wouldn’t be repeated.

This time, the mistake will have to last much longer than a single night.

7

Ava

The smell of turpentine and acrylic paint clings to my clothes as I squint at the canvas. The studio lights at Parsons are brutal. They show every flaw, every hesitation in my brushstrokes. And don’t even get me started on how human skin looks under these lights. Mine specifically. I caught my reflection in the window earlier and let’s just say, the results weren’t pretty. Shiny forehead, blotchy cheeks, and under-eye circles deep enough to make a raccoon envious.

I sigh, and reverently grab my last tube of cadmium red and squeeze gently, coaxing out a thin ribbon of paint onto my palette. At forty-two dollars a tube, this stuff might as well be liquid gold. I make a mental note to water it down just enough to stretch it out without compromising the intensity.

The starving artist cliché is alive and well in my life. Maybe I should start a TikTok: “Watch me make masterpieces while surviving on mac ‘n’ cheese and panic-induced bursts of inspiration. AvasFantasticArt - where existential crises meet entertainment!”

My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder. Faculty critique in two hours. I’ve been preparing for this one for weeks.

I wipe my hands on my already paint-splattered jeans and try not to think about last Friday night. But just like the persistent red paint under my fingernails, thoughts of Gideon King refuse to be scrubbed away.

Stop it, Ava. Focus on the actual things that matter, not the six-foot-ten billionaire who made it very clear you were a one-time-only item.

Waking up in his penthouse after a one night stand was one thing. But apparently the universe thought I needed an extra serving of humiliation, because then he bent me over his ridiculous glass desk for round two before having his driver shuttle me back to reality. Nothing says “you’re special” quite like being expedited out of a billionaire’s life faster than an Amazon same-day delivery.

I’d left with my pride in tatters but my resolve intact. Never again would I let myself be that vulnerable, that exposed.

I angrily dab more paint onto the canvas, focusing on the play of light across the abstract cityscape I’m creating. The buildings blend and blur under my brush, distorted by my emotions.

Three hours later, I’m standing in the small gallery space where our department has set up a student showcase. My three pieces hang on the far wall. They’re my studies for my final exhibition. Professor Marshall stands in front of them, rubbing his temples in contemplation.

“The tension between structure and emotion is powerful, Ava,” he says, gesturing to the largest canvas. “But I’d love to see you push the contrast further. Maybe try gold leaf in some sections? Tocreate a more dramatic interplay between light and shadow?”

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