Page 53 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Congratulations on your studio, Ava,” he says finally. “I hope it brings you what you’re looking for.”

As he walks away, I stand alone in the kitchen, feeling oddly victorious. Today, I changed my circumstances in ways my younger self could never have imagined. I secured my creative future. I erased a financial burden deliberately placed on me by someone who wanted to control my path.

And maybe, just maybe, I earned a tiny bit of respect from New York’s most demanding billionaire.

Not that I need his approval.

But it doesn’t feel terrible to have it.

17

Ava

The paint fumes make my nose tingle as I carefully arrange tubes of color on the folding table I’ve set up in the corner of the living room. The afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows, coating everything in golden light that would make even a mediocre painting look halfway decent.

Great, Ava. Just colonize the man’s multi-million dollar penthouse like it’s your freshman dorm room, why don’t you.

But I need this. My Brooklyn studio is perfect for large-scale work and messy projects, but the commute will eat up hours of painting time. Time I can’t spare with graduation looming.

I step back to assess my handiwork. A compact workstation nestled between two windows, drop cloth carefully taped down to protect the floor, portable easel unfolded and ready. It’s modest enough that it shouldn’t offend His Majesty’s sensibilities, but functional enough for daily sketching and smaller paintings.

I pause for a moment to admire the Rothko hehas hanging on the opposite wall. If only I can one day strive to that level of perfection.

The elevator dings, sending my heart into my throat.

Crap. He’s home early.

I wipe my hands on my already paint-splattered jeans and try to look confident in my territory-claiming. Gideon rounds the corner, loosening his tie, and stops short when he sees my setup.

“What’s this?” His voice is neutral, giving away nothing.

“Just a small workspace,” I say, my chin lifting slightly. “For everyday painting. Brooklyn’s great for my bigger projects, but sometimes inspiration strikes at midnight.”

He steps closer, then crinkles his nose as the smell of linseed oil and turpentine hits him. “The fumes are a little... strong.”

“Oil paint,” I shrug. “It’s got personality.”

Gideon pulls out his phone and types something quickly. “I’ll have Philip upgrade the ventilation system in this section of the penthouse.”

“Philip?” I ask.

“My household manager.”

Of course he has a household manager. Why wouldn’t he? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by now. Probably has a sock organizer and professional pillow fluffer, too.

“Right. How silly of me to ask,” I say. “Does Philip also alphabetize your breakfast cereals?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Philip doesn’t believe in breakfast cereal. It’s beneath the dignity of this household.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, which is somehow worse.

Gideon’s eyes scan the careful arrangement,sweeping over the drop cloth, the folding table, and the small tackle box of brushes I’ve labeled and organized by size and function.

“I’m being neat, I promise,” I tell him. “No paint on the fancy floors or walls. I’ve got tarps and everything.”

Shut up, Ava. You’re rambling like a guilty teenager.

“I visited your warehouse yesterday,” he says, completely ignoring my nervous chatter.

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