Page 35 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Still,” Jonas persists, “you spent one night with her.One. And a morning. That’s hardly—”

“Enough.” My voice drops to the low register that silences boardrooms. “I’ve made my decision.”

Jonas raises both hands in surrender, but I catch his knowing smirk. Fuck. I’ve just defended her too emphatically for this to be purely business, and he knows it.

I return to the table, deliberately steadying my breathing.

My phone buzzes with an alert. “The designer has arrived for Ava. I need to introduce them.”

“You’re personally handling the wedding dress?” Jonas’s surprise is evident. “I thought—”

“Image is everything in this charade. The dress needs to convey wealth without ostentation, sophistication without trying too hard.”

I stride through the corridor to the private elevator, adjusting my tie in the mirrored interior as I descend. Each reflection shows what I need the world to see: calm, controlled, commanding. Not a man marrying a woman he can’t stop thinking about despite his best efforts.

When I reach the atrium, Ava is already waiting, looking out of place amidst the corporate sterility in her paint-splattered jeans and oversized sweater. Her thick black curls are piled messily on topof her head, and she’s biting her lower lip. A nervous habit I’ve already begun to recognize.

“Ava,” I announce my presence, watching her startle slightly.

She turns, those wide eyes meeting mine with a complexity that’s becoming familiar. Wariness, determination, and something else I refuse to identify. Her cheeks redden slightly, as they usually do in my presence, and she lowers her gaze slightly.

“Your designer is waiting in the private suite,” I inform her, gesturing toward a corridor.

“About that,” she says, straightening her shoulders in that way she does before challenging me. “I appreciate all this, but I already told you, I’d prefer to choose my own dress.”

I pause, considering. “The designer is Vera Wang.”

Her eyes widen fractionally before she recovers. “That’s impressive. But still my decision.”

“Time is essential. This designer understands the image we need to project.”

“And what image is that exactly?” There’s an edge to her voice.

“Sophisticated. Tasteful. Convincing.”

“As yourtrophywife?” She spits the words.

I step closer, lowering my voice. “As mypartnerin this arrangement. As a woman whose taste and intelligence match her beauty.”

A flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t back down. “I’ll meet with her, but I’m paying for the dress myself.”

I nearly laugh. “A Vera Wang custom gown costs more than—”

“I know exactly what it costs,” she interrupts. “That’s why I’ll choose something within my budget.”

The stubborn set of her jaw tells me this isn’t negotiable. It’s both infuriating and oddly refreshing. Most women would jump at unlimited access to my credit card.

“Fine. Meet the designer, and if nothing suits you, we’ll discuss alternatives.” A diplomatic compromise.

She nods, seemingly satisfied with this small victory.

“We need to discuss our cover story,” I add. “Tonight, eight o’clock. Video call.”

“I have class until nine.”

“Nine-thirty then.” I don’t phrase it as a question.

After she meets the designer, I return to my office and initiate background checks on everyone involved in the wedding preparations. Every caterer, florist, and venue staff member must sign ironclad NDAs. One leak about the rushed timeline could fuel speculation that would undermine everything.

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