Page 23 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I nod enthusiastically while mentally calculating the cost of gold leaf.

Sure, I’ll just sell a kidney. They come in pairs for a reason, right?

“I’ve been experimenting with metallics,” I say instead. “I’ll definitely explore that direction.”

He smiles and moves on to critique Lucy’s photography series. I exhale slowly, fighting the urge to check my bank balance right there in the gallery. Between rent, supplies, and my monthly student loan payment—thanks, Stepdad from Hell—I’m perpetually dancing on the edge of financial disaster.

Lucy sidles up to me after her critique, her honey-blonde hair bouncing as she bumps my shoulder with hers.

“You good? You’ve been weird all week,” she says, studying my face with the same intensity she uses when framing a photograph.

“I’m fine. Just stressed about graduation,” I lie. I haven’t told her about Gideon. How could I? ‘Hey, remember that billionaire from Friday night, well I slept with him and then he kicked me to the curb’ isn’t exactly casual conversation material. I’d rather just forget that the whole thing ever happened.

Lucy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it. “Well, your work is amazing. You know what would make it even better? If you actually ate something occasionally. Coffee is not a food group.”

I’m about to respond with my standard “starving is part of my artistic process” joke when I feel it. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. I scan the small crowd of students and faculty, and myheart stops.

No. No way. Not possible.

But it is. Standing at the back of the gallery, tall and imposing in a suit that probably costs more than my entire education, is Gideon King. Our eyes lock across the room, and I swear the temperature jumps ten degrees.

Why is he here? To torture me again? His “beautiful mistake”?

“Ava? Hello? You look like you just saw a ghost,” Lucy waves a hand in front of my face.

“Worse,” I mutter. “I just saw a man who made it very clear he never wanted to see me again.”

Lucy’s eyes widen as she follows my gaze. “Wait, is that—”

“Don’t look!” I hiss, grabbing her arm. “Yes, it’s him. I have no idea why he’s here.”

“The billionaire art collector? The one who bought the Matisse last year? And what do you mean ‘again’?”

But I can’t answer because Gideon is making his way toward us, moving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who’s never had to doubt their place in the world. Unlike me. Students part for him like he’s Moses and they’re the Red Sea.

Because of course he is and of course they are.

I straighten my spine and lift my chin, acutely aware of my paint-stained fingers and the messy bun that’s been falling apart all day. He looks immaculate in that dark suit and crisp white shirt. As he gets closer, I smell that characteristic cologne, all citrus and woodsmoke, and it triggers a memory of his rock hard abs. Not to mention his rock hard—

Oh god. Not now!

I swallow, feeling my face turn a bright red.

Stay calm. Act normal. Whatever normal is when facingthe man who’s seen you naked and then dismissed you from his life like yesterday’s stock report. God, why does he have to look so gorgeous all the time?? It’s so unfair.

“Ms. Redwood,” he says, his voice as smooth as I remember. “Your work continues to impress.”

Behind him stand two burly men in pristine suits. I recognize them from the gallery and lounge. Though I didn’t know it then, they’re part of his security detail, of course.

“Mr. King,” I reply, proud that my voice doesn’t shake. I do my best to ignore the heat in my cheeks. “I didn’t expect to see you ever... to see you here. This is just a student showcase.”

“I make it a point to keep an eye on emerging talent.” His gray eyes flick to Lucy, who’s staring at him with undisguised excitement.

“Oh! This is Lucy Hammond, my friend and fellow student,” I say, barely remembering my manners. “Lucy, this is Gideon King.”

Why does my face have to do this to me? God I hope Lucy doesn’t notice.

Lucy extends her hand enthusiastically. I can tell she’s on the verge of blurting out ‘oh I know very well who he is.’ Instead she comes out with: “Nice to meet you, Mr. King. I’ve heard a lot about your collection.”

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