Page 33 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Not quite,” Gideon says. “We need to review the financial structure next.” He glances at Mr. Hoffman. “Let’s move to the conference room.”

Two hours later,my head is swimming with terms like “equitable subrogation,” “beneficial interest,” and “third-party derivative actions.” Mr. Hoffman has been walking me through a PowerPoint presentation that might as well be in Sanskrit.

“So as trustee of the parallel investment entity,” he explains, pointing to a complex flowchart, “you’llhave legal authority to direct acquisition strategy within pre-established parameters.”

I nod, pretending to understand more than 20% of what she’s saying.

Smile and nod. Smile and nod. You can Google all this later.

His partner in the firm, Mr. Weiss, gives me a patronizing smile. “Perhaps we should simplify this for Ms. Redwood. After all, her expertise is in... painting, correct?”

The room goes quiet. The air conditioner hums softly in the background. I can feel every eye on me, including Gideon’s, whose jaw has tightened almost imperceptibly.

Heat rushes to my face, but this time it’s not embarrassment. It’s anger.

Oh hell no. I didn’t agree to marry a billionaire just to be talked down to by his moronic minions.

“Actually,” I say sweetly, “I understand the concept perfectly. The parallel investment entity creates a separate voting block that circumvents Blackwell’s attempt to trigger the deadlock provision.” Well I might only get 20% of all the jargon, I understand that part very well. The research I did last night helps, of course.

The silence that follows is absolute. Mr. Weiss blinks rapidly. Mr. Hoffman’s eyebrows shoot up. And Gideon, well he’s is looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. He seems almost... proud?

“I mean, I did some research last night,” I add with a shrug. “The SEC website is surprisingly readable at 4 AM.”

Mr. Hoffman recovers first. “That’s... exactly right,Miss Redwood.”

I take a sip of my now-cold coffee to hide my smile.

Score one for the art major.

As the meeting wraps up, I sign the revised agreement with the artistic flair of someone who’s both exhausted and slightly terrified. Handshakes all around: firm lawyer grips that scream “we’ve just earned our retainer” and finally, Gideon’s. I’m startled by how normal it feels. Like shaking hands with a gallery owner, not the guy who’d made me see stars. The electricity I’d felt before seems to have short-circuited somewhere between “equitable subrogation” and “beneficial interest.”

Is this what happens when you negotiate the romance out of a relationship before it even starts? Or maybe three hours of legal jargon is nature’s most effective libido killer.

I steal another glance at him, searching for that flutter. Nothing. Just two business partners sealing a deal with ink instead of chemistry.

Great. We’ve already managed to lawyer the attraction right out of us.

Gideon walks me to the elevator. We stand in silence until the doors close, leaving us momentarily alone.

“So it’s done,” he says quietly.

“It is,” I agree.

He pauses. “You know, you continue to surprise me, Ava.”

“How so?”

He shakes his head. “You’re a better negotiator than I thought. And you’ve done your research. Well done.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the descending floor numbers. “Most of them involvepaint and poor life choices, but occasionally I pull out a corporate law reference.”

He laughs, a genuine sound that makes something flutter in my chest.

So notallof the attraction is gone.

Not sure if that’s good or bad.

“I think this is going to work out well,” Gideon announces.

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