Page 43 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“An observation.” I meet her gaze. “Change can be interesting.”

Something shifts in the air between us. A tension that has nothing to do with security protocols or smart home systems.

My phone buzzes, breaking the moment. I check the message. “Food’s on its way up.”

“That was fast.”

“I told you. Billionaire perks.” I move toward the elevator. “There are some things about this arrangement you might actually enjoy.”

As I retrieve our midnight feast from the security desk, I find myself oddly energized despite the late hour and long day. The penthouse feels so different now. Warmer somehow, less like the pristine showpiece it’s always been and more like something alive.

It’s disconcerting. I’ve built my life around order and control, and Ava Redwood represents neither. Her boxes, her paintings, her questions. All of it disrupts the careful balance I’ve maintained.

For the next six months, my space is no longer entirely my own. My routine will bend to accommodate another person’s existence. It’s an invasion of sorts, one I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to for business purposes.

So why don’t I mind as much as I should?

I push the thought away as I return with the food. This arrangement is temporary. A means to an end. Nothing more.

No matter how intriguing I might find my new wife.

13

Ava

Ican feel people staring. Hundreds of eyes tracking my every move like I’m some rare zoo animal.

Smile. Don’t trip. Look like you belong. You’re supposed to be a billionaire’s wife for god’s sake.

The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glitters around me. And I mean that literally. Those crystal chandeliers are throwing light across the crowd of Manhattan’s wealthiest and most powerful. Every woman seems to be dripping in diamonds, their gowns probably worth more than my entire student loan debt. Which, to be fair, is substantial.

Gideon’s hand rests at the small of my back, steady and warm through the thin fabric of my gown. It’s a midnight blue number that I secretly love but pretended to be indifferent about when his stylist brought it over. His touch feels both reassuring and utterly foreign. My husband’s touch.

God, this is weird.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs close to my ear, his breath tickling my neck. “Just follow my lead.”

I force a tight smile. “Easy for you to say. This is your natural habitat. I feel like I’m wearing a costume.”

“You look beautiful,” he says simply, and something flutters in my chest that I immediately squash.

Don’t you dare, Ava. This is a business arrangement. The man has literally paid you not to fall for him.

“Mrs. King!” A woman with silver hair coiffed into an architectural marvel approaches us. “What a delightful surprise! Gideon has been our most eligible bachelor for so long, we’d almost given up hope.”

I extend my hand, trying to mimic the graceful gestures of the women around me. “Thank you for including me tonight. It’s all a bit overwhelming.”

“Oh, newlyweds are always so refreshing,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. “I’m Judith Cavendish, the event chair. We’re so pleased you could attend Gideon’s table tonight.”

His table? Like, heownsit?

The confusion must show on my face because Gideon smoothly interjects, “I’m a major sponsor of the foundation. They always reserve a table.”

“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath.

He shoots me a look that’s half warning, half amusement.

We’re guided to our seats at the center of the room, because naturally Gideon King wouldn’t be seated anywhere less prominent. Michael, one of my assigned security guards, positions himself at a discreet distance behind us. Diana, the other half of my detail, is somewhere in the crowd, probably intimidating socialites with her don’t-fuck-with-me vibe.

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