Page 44 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I’m still getting used to having shadows. Yesterday, Diana followed me to the art supply store andscanned every aisle before letting me browse. It was ridiculous and oddly comforting at the same time.

Our table is already half-full with people whose names I immediately forget upon introduction. They all look at me with the same mix of curiosity and assessment, as if trying to solve the puzzle of my existence. What could Gideon King possibly see in this unknown art student?

If they only knew this whole marriage is a corporate shield. Talk about anticlimactic.

My stomach growls loudly just as the servers arrive with our first course. I realize I haven’t eaten since a hurried protein bar at noon, too nervous about tonight to think about food. But now that I’m here, food is definitely at the top of my mind. In fact, the plate in front of me looks incredible: some kind of delicate sea scallop thing with colorful foams and microgreens artfully arranged like a miniature abstract painting. Of course it’s about three bites total.

Rich people and their microscopic portions. What is this, food for ants? I’m going to have to order pizza when we get home.

I grab my fork, poking it into one of the scallops, when I notice something odd. No one else is eating. They’re all engaged in conversation, completely ignoring the beautiful food in front of them. I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.

Shit, am I not supposed to eat yet? Is this just decoration? A garnish? Rich people are so weird.

My face starts heating up. I can feel it spread slowly from my cheeks down to my neck.

Spontaneous lobster condition, check! Why don’t I just get a flashing Vegas sign that says ‘I don’t belong here’? Godthis sucks.

Just as I’m contemplating putting my fork down and pretending I was just admiring the artistry of the dish, Gideon casually picks up his own utensils and begins eating. Almost immediately, others at the table follow suit.

“Always wait for the host,” he says softly. Then, louder. “Chef Marcel is known for his seafood.”

I take a bite, momentarily distracted from my embarrassment by the incredible flavor. “Oh my god, this scallop is amazing.”

The woman across from me, some baroness or countess or whatever, smiles thinly. Or smugly. I can’t really tell. “Indeed. The foundation always secures the best chefs.”

Conversation flows around me, mostly financial talk and gossip about people I’ve never heard of. I nod and smile at appropriate intervals, concentrating on not making any more mistakes. When the bread basket comes my way, I’m starved enough to gratefully take a roll.

I cut it in half with my knife and proceed to butter the entire piece at once. The baroness-countess-whatever across the table raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and I know immediately I’ve committed anotherfaux pasagainst high society.

What now? Is there a special way to eat bread when you’re rich?

From the corner of my eye, I see Gideon tear a small piece from his roll, butter it, and eat just that piece before tearing off another. Oh. Great. Even bread has a protocol.

I glance down at my fully buttered half-roll, now a glaring beacon of my lower-class origins.

Well, can’t unbutter it now. Just eat the evidence, Ava.

I take a small bite from the edge, trying to bedainty about it, and mentally prepare to tackle the other half of my roll the “proper” way.

When I get to the other half, I tear off a modest piece, add a conservative dab of butter, and pop it in my mouth with what I hope passes for aristocratic nonchalance.

Who knew bread could be so complicated?

Next they’ll tell me there’s a special way to breathe in high society. Inhale with your left nostril on Tuesdays, the right nostril on Wednesdays.

When a server fills our champagne glasses and the event chair calls for a toast, I’m relieved to have something to do with my hands. I lift my glass with everyone else and take a healthy sip as the chairman finishes his speech.

Only to realize, once again, that I’m the only one actually drinking. Everyone else has merely touched the glass to their lips in some symbolic gesture.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

The heat is back in my cheeks, and I’m pretty sure I now resemble a fire hydrant. Gideon’s hand finds my knee under the table and gives it a reassuring squeeze. The touch does nothing to cool my flaming face, but it does steady me somehow.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs again. “These people have spent their entire lives learning these ridiculous social rules.”

“I’m a walking disaster,” I whisper back. “I’d rather give a nude presentation to my entire art class than endure another minute of this.”

He almost chokes on his water, and the flash of genuine amusement in his eyes makes me feel marginally better.

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