Page 57 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“The trust is like a frame,” she says, sketching quickly in her notebook. “It contains and protects the artwork—your assets—while presenting them in a specific context that enhances their value and stability.”

I find myself leaning closer as she draws, watching her slender fingers move across the page with confidence. She smells like coffee and paint thinner, an oddly appealing combination. When she turns to explain her diagram, our faces are inches apart, and something shifts in the airbetween us.

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything else falls away. I notice things I shouldn’t. The flecks of gold in her brown irises, the small scar near her left eyebrow, the fullness of her bottom lip as she presses it between her teeth.

Shit. This is exactly what I’ve been avoiding.

I abruptly stand, nearly knocking over my coffee. “I think that’s enough for today.”

She blinks, confusion crossing her face. Her cheeks are a rosy red. “But we haven’t covered the SEC reporting requirements you mentioned.”

“Another time.” I move behind my desk, creating distance. “I have a call with Tokyo in twenty minutes. I need to prepare.”

It’s a lie, and from her expression, she knows it. But she doesn’t challenge me, just slowly gathers her notes.

“Well thanks for the lesson, I guess.” She stands, hugging the folder to her chest. “Should we schedule another session?”

“I’ll let you know.” My voice comes out colder than intended.

She stiffens slightly. “Right. Busy schedule, important calls, I get it.”

I should say something. Acknowledge her aptitude, praise her quick learning. Instead, I reach for my phone, pretending to check messages. “Close the door on your way out.”

After she leaves, I sit heavily in my chair, running a hand through my hair. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I arranged this tutorial to protect my business interests, not to discover that my fake wife has a mind as compelling as her body. And that my own body still responds to hers like some fucking teenager with no self-control. Hard to maintain professionaldistance when all I can think about is ravaging her again on my office desk.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jonas about the postponed meeting, and I’m grateful for the distraction. Work. That’s what matters. What’s always mattered. Not brown eyes flecked with gold, or the way her face lights up when she grasps a new concept, or how her artistic perspective cuts through financial complexity with unexpected clarity.

I open my laptop and force myself to focus on the Tokyo proposal, pushing thoughts of Ava firmly aside. This marriage is a business arrangement with a clear purpose and definite endpoint. Nothing more.

19

Ava

The elevator dings and my stomach immediately ties itself into a pretzel. Lucy. She’s early, of course, because punctuality is her superpower while mine is apparently marrying billionaires on short notice.

Just act normal. You’ve only committed mild fraud that could potentially land you in federal prison. No biggie.

“Honey, I’m home!” Lucy’s voice rings through the penthouse as she struts in like she owns the place. Which, considering her family’s real estate empire, isn’t that far-fetched. “Holy shit, Ava. This place makes my parents’ condo look like student housing.”

I force a laugh that sounds more like a strangled hiccup. “It’s a bit much, right?”

Lucy drops her designer handbag on the marble counter and spins around, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the custom furniture, the casual Rothko hanging in the living room like it’s a poster from Target.

“A bit much? That’s like saying the ocean is a bit wet.” She pulls me into a hug, the familiar scent ofher vanilla perfume momentarily calming my nerves. “So where’s the mysterious husband? I need to properly interrogate the man who swept my best friend off her feet in record time.”

“Working. Always working.” The truth slips out before I can filter it. “But he should be joining us soon,” I add quickly.

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise already? It’s been what, three weeks?”

“Two and a half,” I correct automatically. “And no, it’s fine. He’s just busy.”

Busy maintaining the fiction that is our marriage while trying to save his company from corporate raiders. The usual newlywed stuff.

“Well, use this time to give me the grand tour before he gets here.” Lucy links her arm through mine. “I want to see every inch of this palace, especially your studio space.”

I lead her through the penthouse, pointing out features I’m still getting used to myself. The smart home system that still confuses me, the kitchen with appliances I’m afraid to touch, the guest rooms that could comfortably house a family of four.

“And this is my workspace,” I say, showing her the small room I’ve converted into a mini studio. It’s nothing compared to my Brooklyn warehouse space, but it’s becoming mine, with canvases stacked against the walls and the smell of oils and turpentine hanging in the air.

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