Page 40 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“The ceremony went well.” His gaze sweeps over me. “You played your part perfectly.”

“Thanks. I always thought I’d make a good actress. Who knew?”

His lips quirk. “Was that all it was? Acting?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications.

“Of course,” I say quickly. “What else would it be?”

Gideon studies me. “Nothing else. We’re clear on the terms.”

“Crystal clear.”

“Good.” He glances at his super expensive watch. “The car is waiting. It’ll take you to the penthouse.”

“The penthouse?” I blink, confused.

“Your home for the next six months, remember?” he explains. “You already moved your things. Boxes waiting to be unpacked.”

Our home. My things.

The reality of what I’ve agreed to crashes over me. This is my life for the next six months. Living with him. Being seen with him. Mrs. Gideon King in every way that matters to theoutside world.

“Right,” I manage to say. “Don’t know... how I could forget.”

Gideon hesitates, then reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. The gesture is oddly intimate, and I shiver involuntarily.

“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “you make a beautiful bride.” Before I can fully process the warmth behind his words, he’s already pulling away. “Well, I have some matters to attend to. I’ll be home later tonight.”

I watch him walk away, the straight set of his shoulders, the steady confidence in his stride. Yet beneath that composed surface, he’s as much a mystery to me as ever.

This man I just married.

This man whose heart I hardly know.

This man I’m forbidden to want, to cherish. Or worse, toneed.

Well, it’s only six months, I remind myself.

Yeah, six months of living an unsanctioned reality TV series called ‘The Billionaire’s Wife,’ with no director, no script revisions, and no understudy waiting in the wings if I royally screw this up.

Should be fun.

12

Gideon

It’s nearly midnight when I finally make it back to the penthouse. The meeting with my legal team dragged on longer than expected, strategizing our next countermoves against Blackwell. The marriage is just the first step. Now comes the complex dance of asset restructuring that will shield everything I’ve built.

I loosen my tie as the elevator ascends to my penthouse.Ourpenthouse, I correct myself. That’s going to take some getting used to.

When the doors slide open, I’m greeted by an unfamiliar scene. Boxes are scattered across my usually pristine living room, some already emptied, their contents spilling out in colorful disarray. The minimalist space I’ve carefully curated now hosts random bursts of color and chaos.

Ava stands in the center of it all, her wedding dress exchanged for paint-spattered jeans and an oversized Parsons sweatshirt. Her dark curls are piled messily on top of her head, and she’s barefoot,attempting to hang what appears to be an abstract canvas above my Italian leather sofa.

I feel my jaw tighten, a familiar tension spreading through my shoulders.

This is exactly what I feared. Immediate disruption to my carefully ordered space without even a courtesy discussion first.

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