Page 38 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

This is insane. This is absolutely insane. I can’t do it.

Dean Wess, who somehow got ordained online just for this occasion, waits with a theatrical smile, clearly relishing his role in this charade. If only he knew the whole truth.

I wonder how many people here actually know other than Gideon and I? His lawyers. Anyone else?

The contract specifically limited knowledge of our arrangement to our witnesses and the necessary legal team, so I can’t be sure.

When “Here Come The Bride” begins, Lucy gives me a gentle nudge.

“That’s your cue.”

I swallow hard. My feet move forward of their own accord. The heels click softly against the carpet.Jimmy Choo heels, I think absently. Another “business expense.”

I focus on not tripping, on holding the bouquet at just the right height, on keeping my expression serene rather than terrified.

Gideon’s eyes find mine, and there’s something in them I can’t decipher. Interest? Amusement? Appraisal? Whatever it is, it makes heat rush to my cheeks.

He looks good. Unfairly good. Like he was born to command rooms and ruin women.

I reach the end of the aisle and take my place opposite him. Up close, I can smell his cologne. That usual expensive, subtle scent I remember all too well from the night and morning after we spenttogether. The night that was supposed to be our only night.

“Dearly beloved,” Dean begins, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of someone who’s watched too many movie weddings. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Gideon John King and Ava Marie Redwood in holy matrimony.”

I stare at the knot of Gideon’s tie, unable to meet his eyes. This feels too real and too fake simultaneously. The words wash over me. Commitments, promises, vows that neither of us intends to keep beyond the contractually obligated timeframe.

“The rings, please,” Dean announces with flourish.

Jonas produces two bands from his pocket. Platinum for Gideon, and for me, a delicate ring with a tasteful diamond.

This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real...

Gideon takes my hand. His palm is warm and dry against my clammy fingers. He slides the ring onto my finger with practiced ease.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he says, his deep voice resonating in the quiet space.

Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. My breath catches in my throat, a hot flush climbing up my neck.

Oh no. No, no, no. This is NOT happening. You are NOT feeling things. This is a BUSINESS ARRANGEMENT, Ava. Get it together.

My turn now. My fingers tremble as I take his ring from Dean. Gideon’s hand dwarfs mine, strong and steady as I slide the band onto his finger. The flush doesn’t stop at my neck, racing up to my cheeks and forehead like wildfire.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” I repeat,my voice barely above a whisper. I can feel tiny beads of sweat forming along my hairline, and seriously, is the air conditioning even working in this place?

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York and the internet,” Dean declares with a wink that makes me want to sink through the floor, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He pauses dramatically. “You may kiss the bride.”

Oh god. The kiss. We never discussed the kiss. How did we not discuss the kiss?

Gideon’s expression remains neutral, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Challenge? He leans down, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. His touch is gentle, almost tender, and entirely at odds with the coldly negotiated terms of our arrangement.

His mouth meets mine. The kiss is professional at first. Stage kiss, closed-mouth, appropriate for the minimal audience. But then his lips soften against mine, and something shifts. My body remembers his, remembers the way we fit together, the heat we generated. My free hand moves of its own accord to his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the expensive fabric.

This isn’t in the contract. This flutter in my stomach definitely violates section 5, paragraph 3: “No emotional involvement.”

He pulls back first, his expression unreadable. A small, private smile plays at the corner of his mouth, visible only to me.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dean announces to our small audience, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. King!”

Polite applause ensues. A photographer, another person on Gideon’s payroll, captures the moment forposterity. Or evidence. Or whatever you call wedding photos when the marriage has a predetermined end date.

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