Page 55 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I snort. “Well, passion doesn’t paythe rent. Or didn’t, until recently.” I gesture vaguely between us, acknowledging our arrangement.

An awkward silence follows, reminding us both of the strange circumstances that have brought us together.

“Will you show me?” he asks suddenly. “Your process, I mean. When you paint.”

The request catches me completely off guard. “You want to watch me paint?”

He looks almost embarrassed. “I collect art, but I’ve never observed its creation. It’s a gap in my understanding.”

“I... sure, I guess.” I tuck a curl behind my ear, oddly flustered. “Though watching paint dry isn’t exactly thrilling entertainment.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest at his interest. For a moment, I forget we’re basically business partners in a marriage of convenience. It feels almost... normal. Like we’re just two people getting to know each other.

Dangerous territory, Ava. Remember the contract. No emotional involvement.

“Well, don’t expect a miracle,” I say, trying to rebuild the wall between us. “Most of painting is staring intensely at a canvas while looking constipated.”

He laughs, a rich sound I’ve rarely heard from him. “I look forward to the constipated staring.”

I roll my eyes, but can’t help smiling. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“I’ve been called worse.” He checks his watch. “I have a call in ten minutes. But I’m free after seven if you’re planning to work tonight.”

“I might be.” I try to sound noncommittal, butthe idea of sharing my creative process with someone who seems genuinely interested is oddly appealing.

As he walks away toward his office, I stare at my makeshift studio, feeling strangely unsettled. This wasn’t in the script—Gideon showing interest in my art, in my process. Being understanding instead of controlling. Looking at me like I’m actually worth listening to.

Don’t get used to it. This is still a business arrangement with an expiration date.

I pick up a brush and twirl it between my fingers, trying to ignore the fact that for the first time since moving in, this penthouse feels a little less like a gilded cage and a little more like a place I could actually exist.

Not home. Definitely not home.

But something surprisingly close to it.

18

Gideon

Istare at the quarterly reports spread across the glass desk of my home office, but my mind keeps circling back to the same problem: Ava.

Not helping that this is the same desk where I fucked her senseless the morning of our one night stand. The memory of her gasps, her body yielding beneath my hands, it’s distracting as hell. It’s why I try not to work from home very much anymore.

I force the images from my mind, adjusting uncomfortably in my chair. Business. Focus on business.

Okay. So. If she’s going to convincingly play her role as trustee, she needs to understand more than just the basics of what she’s signing. The board meeting showed me that. Her poise was impressive, but her knowledge has gaps that could be exploited. Someone like Burt Lee would pounce on any sign of weakness.

Fuck. I hate being unprepared.

I send a quick text to Jonas, postponing our morning meeting, then head to the kitchen where Ava is havingbreakfast. She’s hunched over her sketchbook, hair piled messily on top of her head, a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. She doesn’t notice me until I clear my throat.

“We need to talk,” I say.

She looks up, wariness immediately crossing her face. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not.” I lean against the counter. “But you need a crash course in corporate finance. Your role as trustee requires more than just showing up and looking pretty.”

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