Page 51 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

She names a figure that would have sent me running a week ago but now feels... possible.

“I’ll take it,” I say before I can second-guess myself.

The realtor blinks. “Don’t you want to consult with your husband?”

Bristling, I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t need to consult withanyone. I’ll sign today.”

Diana shifts her weight behind me. I can practically feel her thinking,Gideon’s not going to like this.

Two hours later, I’m holding keys to my very own studio space. Sebastian, Gideon’s driver who’s been patiently waiting outside, raises an eyebrow when I climb back into the sleek black car.

“We have a couple more stops to make,” I tell him, trying to sound authoritative despite the nervous flutter in my chest.

At the rate I’m commandeering Gideon’s driver, he’s going to have to get me my own Sebastian soon. He already offered once, but that seemed like overkill. Now I’m not so sure.

“Of course, Mrs. King.” His voice betrays nothing, but I catch his glance in the rearview mirror.

“Art supply store first. Then furniture. And please, just call me Ava.”

Mrs. King sounds like I should be wearing pearls and hosting charity galas, not spilling paint on everything I own.

By late afternoon, I’ve spent more money than I’ve ever had access to in my life. Supplies that I used to ration like precious jewels now fill the trunk. The best paints, brushes that don’t shed, canvas by the roll rather than by the inch. Furniture will be delivered tomorrow: industrial shelving, a robust worktable, storage units, and a comfortable chair for those times when I need to stare at a piece and contemplate whether it’s brilliant or belongs in a dumpster.

When we finally pull up to Gideon’s—our—building, my phone buzzes with a notification from the bank. The student loan payoff has processed. Just like that, the debt that’s shadowed me for years is gone.

Goodbye, legacy of stepdaddy dearest. Hope you choke on your beer tonight.

The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels longer than usual. My security detail tactfully keeps their eyes forward, but I know they’re fully aware of what I’ve done today. I wonder how long it will take for Gideon to find out. I already told him I’d spend the money. Let’s see what happens when he finds out I’ve actually done it.

I’ve barely kicked off my shoes when I hear his voice from the doorway of his home office.

“Productive day?”

I straighten up, meeting his gaze. “Very.”

Gideon steps into the living room, his expression unreadable. The afternoon sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows casts half his face in gold, the other half in shadow. It’s irritatingly symbolic of how I never know which version of himI’m getting.

“Sebastian tells me you’ve been property hunting.”

Of course he did. So much for driver-client confidentiality.

“I found a studio space,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. My face feels warm already. Damn my tendency to turn red at the slightest provocation. “In Brooklyn. Warehouse conversion.”

“I see.” He moves toward the kitchen, loosening his tie. “And were you planning to mention this?”

I follow him, crossing my arms. “I’m mentioning it now.”

“After already signing.” It’s not a question.

“Yes. After using my settlement money to secure a workspace that meets my needs.” The defensiveness in my voice is unmistakable. “Which is exactly what I said I would do. Did you think I was joking?”

Gideon pours himself a glass of water, offering me one with a silent gesture that I decline.

“I assumed you’d want to discuss property investments,” he says. “I have contacts who could have helped you find something—”

“I didn’t need help,” I interrupt. “I know what I need in a studio. Natural light. High ceilings. Space to work without constraint.” I take a breath. “For once in my life, I wanted to make a decision completely on my own terms.”

Without anyone’s approval. Without someone telling me it’s impractical or reckless or not good enough.

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