Page 42 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

While waiting for a response to my text, I notice Ava frowning at one of the wall panels. “Something wrong?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how your lights work for the past hour,” she admits. “This place is like a frickin’ spaceship.”

“The smart home system takes some getting used to.” I approach the panel she’s been looking at. “It’s voice-activated, but there are manual controls too.”

I demonstrate, dimming the overhead lights and brightening the undercabinet lighting. “You can also control the temperature, blinds, music. Pretty much everything. You can also use the tablet. Here, I’ll show you the basics.”

I surprise myself with the suggestion. I’d planned a cursory orientation at most, preferably delegated to my household manager. Yet here I am, personally walking her through the system.

“I had to assign you security clearance too.” I pull out the tablet from its charging dock. “Yourfingerprints are already in the system. Remember when we scanned them at the law office?”

“That’s not creepy at all,” she mutters.

“It’s necessary.” My tone turns serious. “Security is non-negotiable, Ava. The penthouse has restricted elevator access, and there are protocols you’ll need to follow.”

She straightens, sensing my shift in mood. “Like what?”

“For starters, you don’t go anywhere without security.” I pull up the security app on the tablet. “You’ll have two guards with you at all times when you leave the building.”

“What? That wasn’t in the contract!” She stands abruptly. “I can’t have babysitters following me to art class!”

“It’s standard procedure for anyone associated with me,” I explain calmly. “I have threats. Competitors. People who would use any vulnerability.”

“I’m not a vulnerability,” she argues. “I’m an art student nobody gives a shit about!”

“You’re my wife now,” I counter, the words feeling strange on my tongue. “That makes you a target, whether you like it or not.”

She runs her hands through her hair, dislodging more curls from her already messy bun. “This is fucked up. I didn’t sign up to be a prisoner.”

“You’re not aprisoner,” I say in exasperation, trying to keep my frustration in check. “You’re protected. There’s a difference.”

“Doesn’t feel like it from where I’m standing.” She crosses her arms, looking suddenly small in the vast kitchen.

I sigh, setting the tablet down. “Look,I know this is a lot. But these measures aren’t arbitrary, Ava. They’re essential.”

She just stares at the floor.

“How about a tour?” I suggest, hoping to defuse the tension. “Might help you get your bearings.”

She looks up, conflict clear in her expression. Finally, she nods. “Fine. Show me around the fortress.”

I lead her through the penthouse, starting with the main living areas she’s already begun to claim with her belongings. The space spans the entire top floor of the building, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city.

“This is the main living room, obviously,” I say, gesturing to the open-concept space. “Kitchen, dining area. The east wing has my home office and library.”

“What’s through there?” she asks, pointing to a corridor. She suddenly blushes, apparently recognizing my main bedroom.

“Bedrooms. Yours is the second door on the right. Master suite is at the end. There’s a gym and spa area through the other door.” I pause, watching her take it all in. “Any questions so far?”

“Yeah.” She turns to me, eyes wide. “How the fuck does anyone live like this? It’s like a rec center and museum rolled into one.”

I can’t help but laugh at her bluntness. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think I will,” she says, but she’s smiling now too. “It’s beautiful, but so... I don’t know. Sterile.”

“Well, you’re already fixing that.” I nod toward the living room, where her colorful belongings have begun to transform the space. “I’ve never had quite so much color.”

“Is that a complaint?” she challenges.

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