Page 36 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I’ve already directed Jonas to bring on Elliott Hayes, the reputation strategist who salvaged three Fortune 500 CEOs from career-ending scandals last year. This marriage can’t appear desperate or calculated. If thereisa leak, and there’s always a risk, I need someone who can rewrite the narrative before the ink even dries on the story.

The day blurs into night through meetings and crisis management. At precisely nine-thirty, I connect the video call from my home office.

Ava appears on screen, her hair damp, presumably from a shower. The sight is distractingly intimate.

“Let’s review our story,” I begin without preamble, sipping scotch off-camera.

We spend the next hour refining our narrative: how I returned to the gallery as “John” toexperience genuine connection, how she was initially upset but understood my motives, how we continued dating and decided to marry quickly because—

“Won’t people find that suspicious?” she interrupts. “The gallery showing was barely a week ago.”

I suck my upper lip momentarily, thinking. “We’ll say when you know, you know. People expect impulsivity from the obscenely wealthy.”

She flashes an ironic smile. “I wouldn’t call an army of lawyers and prenups impulsive...”

“Even the ultra-wealthy have their romantic moments,” I counter, my tone deliberately light. “I could cite several high-profile examples of rapid engagements.”

“That’s not what I meant about suspicious,” she says, leaning closer to the camera. “People will question why a man who built an empire through calculated decisions would suddenly rush into marriage. Even if you’re prenupped to the gills. They’ll assume there’s an ulterior motive.” She tucks a damp curl behind her ear. “Which there is, of course.”

“Then perhaps I’ll say you were an exception to my usual methodical approach.” The words come out before I can filter them, too honest for comfort.

Something flickers across her face. Surprise, followed by something more complex.

“It sounds... romantic enough to be believable,” she finally says, her voice careful.

“That’s the point. Romance sells the story.”

“Right.” She glances away. “Just a story.”

“Exactly.”

We both fall silent, the unacknowledged tension stretching between us. I remind myself of the contract’s most important clause. No emotional involvement. We both wanted it, for fuck’s sake.

“Blackwell won’t believe it,” she says suddenly.

“He doesn’t need to. He’ll suspect the truth, but suspicion isn’t proof. Legally, we’ll be Mr. and Mrs. King, with all the protections that entails. Sure, he’ll launch lawsuits, but by the time he maneuvers through the legal challenges, the trust will be established.”

She nods slowly. “You’ve thought of everything, I guess. Of course you have. You’reGideon King.”

Something in her voice when she says my name, a subtle edge of mockery or resentment, makes my jaw tighten. There it is again, that complicated mixture of defiance and wariness that seems to define her interactions with me of late. Part of me appreciates her refusal to be intimidated; another part finds it irritating that she’s reducing me to some caricature of wealth and power.

Before I can formulate a response that won’t sound defensive, she shifts in her chair. “Well, I should go. Early class tomorrow.”

I let my face settle into neutral professionalism, swallowing whatever retort had been forming. This arrangement works best with clear boundaries. “Of course. The car will collect you at two for the final fitting.”

She doesn’t contest me on that point, which surprises me. At least I’ve gotten her to stop using the subway. After pushback on everything from the guest list to the flower arrangements, her quiet acceptance feels like a small victory. The thought of her taking the subway, my soon-to-be wife navigating those grimy, unpredictable tunnels, makes something possessive tighten in my chest.

It’s about appearances and protection, I tell myself. A necessary adjustment to our newreality. I mean come on, billionaires’ wives are prime kidnapping targets. My security team would have a fucking aneurysm trying to maintain coverage in those packed train cars.

I haven’t mentioned any of this to her directly, of course. Better that she thinks it’s about maintaining our facade than knowing I’ve already gone through every threat scenario involving her safety. The wife of Gideon King moves through the world differently. Protected, insulated, watched. It’s a cage of privilege she doesn’t yet understand, but one she’ll need to accept. For both our sakes. For the next six months, at least.

After disconnecting, I pour another scotch and stare at the blank screen. I won’t admit, even to myself, that I’m thinking about how her eyes darkened when I moved closer earlier today, or how her face flushed and her breathing changed when I complimented her intelligence alongside her beauty.

This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.

Three days until I marry a woman I can’t afford to want.

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