Page 50 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

He stands now too, towering over his desk. “Enlighten me, then.”

“Security is freedom to create without compromise. It’s paying off debt that was forced on me by someone who wanted to control my future. It’s building something that’s entirely mine.” My voice cracks slightly. “Not everyone defines security the same way you do.”

The silence between us feels charged, dangerous. I’ve never spoken to him like this before. Not as his fake wife, not as his one-night stand, not even during our contract negotiations.

Gideon’s jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he might argue further, but instead he says, “You’re right.”

The simple admission catches me off guard.

“I overstepped,” he continues. “Your finances are your business.”

I nod, suddenly exhausted by the confrontation. “Thank you.”

My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I pull it out, partly to have something to do with my hands, partly because I need to confirm this is all real.

The bank notification glows on my screen. The number makes me dizzy.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, already heading for the door. “I have some financial decisions to make.”

“Ava.” His voice stops me at the threshold. I turn slightly, not quite looking at him. “I’m sorry.”

An apology? From Gideon King? The world must be ending.

“I know,” I reply, and walk out.

In the hallway, I lean against the wall and take a deep breath. My phone is still clutched in my hand, the notification a digital promise of everything I’ve worked for. The smell of linseed oil clings faintly to my clothes. It’s a subtle reminder of who I really am despite the bizarre circumstances.

So this is what financial independence feels like. Terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

I stare at the number again. This is just the first installment. Twenty percent of what I’ll eventually receive. It’s enough to change everything while changing nothing. I’m still me. Still Ava Redwood, soon-to-be graduate, artist, and fake wife.

But now I’m Ava Redwood with options. Ava Redwood who doesn’t have to compromise her art for rent money. Ava Redwood who can finally prove her stepfather wrong.

I push off from the wall, feeling lighter than I have in years. The weight of financial insecurity begins to lift from my shoulders.

For the first time since signing that marriage contract, I don’t regret a thing.

16

Ava

Islip my phone into my pocket and adjust my sunglasses, squinting against the Brooklyn sunlight. The converted warehouse looms before me. It’s all exposed brick and industrial windows. Exactly what I’ve been searching for online all week.

This is it. This is the one. Please don’t let the price be totally insane.

“Ms. Redwood?” The realtor checks her clipboard. “I mean, Mrs. King?”

“Ava is fine.” I force a smile while my stomach does an uncomfortable flip at the name change. Still not used to that.

Behind me, Michael and Diana, my not-so-subtle security detail, maintain a professional distance. I left Parsons early today, and they’ve shadowed me to four different properties already, their expressions never changing as I rambled about light quality and ventilation. Poor souls.

Bet babysitting an artist wasn’t in their special forces training manual.

“The space has excellent northern exposure,”the realtor continues, unlocking the massive sliding door. “Perfect for consistent light without harsh shadows.”

I step inside and nearly gasp. Sunlight pours through industrial windows, illuminating a cavernous space with concrete floors and pillars reaching toward a ceiling at least fifteen feet high. The smell of old wood and metal mingles with a hint of dust. It’s not the musty kind, either, but the honest dust of a place with history.

“How much?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my heart races.

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