Page 30 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I mentionedmany of those points to him already verbally, but I need it in writing. I also add more, crossing out and rewriting until the page is a mess of amendments and additions. By the time sunlight streams through my blinds, I’ve filled three pages with terms and conditions.

My phone rings, displaying Gideon’s number. My heart jumps into my throat.

“Hello?” I answer, trying to sound like someone who has slept in the last 24 hours.

“Have you made your decision?” His voice is all business, no hint of the man who once whispered against my skin.

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I’ll do it.” My voice sounds stronger than I feel. “But I have conditions of my own.”

There’s a pause, and I wonder if he’s surprised or annoyed. Then he chuckles, a low rumble that does unfair things to my stomach.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Ava.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a ‘we should discuss the details in person.’ Let’s meet as soon as possible. We need to finalize this and get it signed by 10 AM.”

I glance around at my disaster of an apartment, at the coffee mug rings on my pros and cons list, at the sketchpad filled with demands from a woman who has no leverage except the fact that he needs her.

“Okay,” I say, sounding much more confident than the riot of butterflies in my stomach would suggest. “8 AM at the coffee shop on West 4th?”

“7:30 please. 8 is cutting it too close. I’ll send a car.”

“I’ll take the subway.”

Another pause. “As you wish. Also, we meet at my attorney’s office, not a coffee shop. You still have the card I gave you with the address?”

It’s sitting on the table in front of me. “I do.”

“Then I’ll see you at 7:30. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up, and I collapse backonto my bed, staring at the ceiling again but with a whole new perspective.

Well, Grandma, you always said my art would take me places. I’m pretty sure this wasn’t what you had in mind.

I laugh, a slightly hysterical sound in my quiet apartment, and wonder if I’ve just made the best decision of my life.

Or the absolute worst.

Time will tell.

9

Ava

The law office of Hoffman, Weiss & Partners makes my art school’s admin building look like a cardboard fort. A waiting area featuring uncomfortable couches with magazines about yachting and hedge funds fanning out in front of them like a mood board for financial nightmares. Glass walls that probably gets polished hourly by someone whose salary exceeds my annual tuition. Mahogany desks wherever I look. Everything gleams with the kind of polish that screams “we bill $1700 an hour to read your emails.”

I’m currently sitting across from Gideon King, who’s so at home here you’d think they keep his DNA on file. Meanwhile, I’m fighting the urge to check if I’ve accidentally tracked paint across their pristine marble floors.

Welcome to My Big Fat Fake Billionaire Wedding: Legal Edition.

Gideon’s eyebrow lifts slightly as I pull out my three pages of handwritten conditions. “You’ve been busy.”

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