Page 52 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

The silence between us stretches, humming with tension.

“Show me,” he says finally.

“What?”

“Your studio. Show me what you chose.”

I pull out my phone, flipping through the photos I took earlier. My hands are slightly unsteady as I passit to him, and our fingers brush momentarily. The contact sends a shiver through me that I refuse to acknowledge.

Gideon scrolls through the images slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Northern exposure. Good foundation.”

“It has character,” I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “And it’s all mine.”

He hands the phone back. “What about your student loans?”

“Paid off.” The words feel surreal coming from my mouth. “Every cent.”

Something flickers across his face. I can’t read it. “You’ve been busy.”

“I know what matters to me.” I tuck my phone away, feeling suddenly defiant. “Financial security means different things to different people, Gideon. For you, it might be diverse investment portfolios and hedge funds. For me, it’s freedom from debt and a space to create without compromise.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You used the line from our argument yesterday.”

Busted.

My cheeks flush hot. “It bears repeating.”

He takes a sip of water, studying me over the rim of his glass. “You know, most people would have consulted financial advisors before making such significant expenditures.”

“Most people haven’t spent years having their artistic decisions questioned and undermined by someone who was supposed to support them,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Today, I finally got to make choices on my own terms.”

His expression softens marginally. “Iunderstand the impulse.” I can see the unsaid question lingering on his tongue.Who undermined your artistic decisions?Thankfully he doesn’t ask it. I’m not ready to go there, not yet.

“Do you really understand?”

“I built my first development project against the advice of every seasoned investor I knew,” he says, surprising me with the admission. “They said I was reckless. Naive. That I’d lose everything.”

I lean against the counter, genuinely curious now. “What happened?”

“I succeeded where they said I would fail. Because I understood something about the market that they didn’t.” A rare, genuine smile crosses his face. “Sometimes expertise doesn’t match instinct.”

“So you’re saying I might actually know what I’m doing?” My tone is lighter now, the tension between us shifting.

“I’m saying I should have given you more credit.”

Well, knock me over with a paintbrush.

I tuck a stray curl behind my ear, not sure how to respond to what feels suspiciously like respect coming from Gideon King. My face is still warm, but it’s different now. Not embarrassment so much as a strange, unfamiliar satisfaction.

“The studio will be ready tomorrow,” I say after a moment. “I have a lot of work to do. I’m going to leave Parsons early again.”

Gideon nods. “I’ll make sure your security detail is briefed on the new location.”

I nearly roll my eyes but catch myself. The security is non-negotiable, part of our arrangement. A small price for my newfound freedom.

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it for more than just the security acknowledgment.

He holds my gaze a moment longer than necessary, and something subtle shifts between us. A glimmer of mutual understanding, perhaps. Or maybe just the recognition of two stubborn people reaching an unexpected détente.

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