Page 32 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

He takes my lack of response for a refusal.

“Fine,” Gideon says. “Twenty percent. But no higher.”

“That,” I squeak. “Would be adequate.”

Adequate? It would be life-changing. I could actually afford a real studio instead of my apartment’s sad excuse for a workspace where I’m constantly apologizing to my neighbors for the fumes.

“And finally,” I say, swallowing hard, “no emotional involvement.”

The room goes quiet. I can hear the tick of an antique clock somewhere behind me.

Gideon and Mr. Hoffman exchange a glance, and the lawyer flips through his papers, clearing his throat.

“That provision has already been included,” Mr. Hoffman says, turning the contract around and pointing to a clause highlighted in yellow. “Section 7.3 explicitly states that ‘both parties acknowledge this arrangement is strictly business in nature and neither party shall develop or pursue emotional attachment beyond what is necessary for public appearances.’”

I blink several times, reading the clause word for word. It’s even more clinical than how I would have phrased it.

Great minds think alike? Or severely damaged minds? Not sure which is worse, that he anticipated my trust issues or that we’re both equally terrible at normal human connections.

“I see we’re on the same page.” I try to keep my voice neutral while my thoughts race. “That’s good.”

Gideon’s expression is unreadable as he watches me process this information. “I thought clarity on this point would benefit us both.”

Benefit us both. Like we’re discussing the terms of a car lease, not whether we might accidentally fall in love. Apparently we’re both allergic to feelings. Should I be relieved or concerned that emotional detachment was on his must-have list too?

“Extremely clear,” I agree, offering a tight smile. “I appreciate the thoroughness.”

Mr. Hoffman looks between us. “Well, the rest of Ms. Redwood’s terms can certainly be incorporated. We’ll need to revise the draft agreement.”

“Do it,” Gideon orders, not taking his eyes off me. “How soon can we have the revised contract?”

“By 9 AM,” the lawyer replies, gathering his papers.

“Good. Miss Redwood will need time to review before signing.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Cutting it close for your 10 AM deadline, aren’t we?”

“That deadline is for the preliminary agreements,” Gideon explains. “The filing for the trust structure happens after our marriage is legally recorded.”

“Ourmarriage,” I repeat, the reality suddenly hitting me like a bucket of cold water. “When exactly is that happening?”

“Friday.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “This Friday? As in three days from now?”

“The situation with Blackwell is accelerating,” he says simply. “Time is crucial.”

He’s talking about our wedding like it’s a boardmeeting to reschedule. Where’s the champagne? Where’s the crying mother? Where’s the insane debate about centerpieces that nobody will remember? The multi-tiered buttercream cake skyscraper to die for?

“Fine,” I say, gathering my wits. “Friday it is. City Hall?”

“My penthouse. Justice Weber owes me a favor. We’ll have a small ceremony with just enough witnesses to make it legally binding and socially convincing.”

“Of course he knows a judge,” I mutter. “And I suppose you’ve already picked out my dress too?”

Gideon’s lips quirk up at one corner. “Actually, I thought you might want to handle that detail yourself. Though I’m happy to provide a budget if—”

“I can buy my own goddamn wedding dress, thank you very much,” I interrupt, and immediately regret the outburst. The thought of dropping money on a dress for a fake wedding makes my stomach twist. Ah well, at least I’ll get the money back when I get the first installment of the settlement. “Will that be all for now, gentlemen?”

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