Page 60 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Relationships usually are.” Lucy’s expression softens. “But you can trust me, you know that, right? Whatever’s really going on, I’m on your side.”

Guilt washes over me. Lucy has been my confidante through everything. My father’s abandonment, my stepfather’s betrayal, the disastrous relationships that followed. Lying to her feels like betraying the one constant support in my life.

“I know,” I say quietly. “And I appreciate you looking out for me. But I’m figuring this out as I go.”

At least that part isn’t a lie.

Lucy’s phone chimes and she checks it with a sigh. “Dad needs me for some emergency at the office.Apparently, the Westside development is having permit issues.”

“You’re not staying for the risotto?” I ask, my tone oddly emotionless.

She shakes her head and stands, gathering her things. “This conversation isn’t over. I still need to properly vet your husband, preferably with alcohol involved.”

I walk her to the elevator, grateful for the reprieve yet strangely hollow from maintaining the deception.

“Just promise me one thing,” Lucy says as the elevator doors slide open. “Be careful with your heart. Whatever this is—whirlwind romance or something else—just make sure you’re protecting yourself.”

“I always do,” I assure her, another half-truth that sits heavily in my chest.

After she leaves, I wander to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline that still doesn’t feel like my view, or my life.

What’s happening to me? This was supposed to be a simple business arrangement. Financial security in exchange for a temporary inconvenience.

But there’s nothing simple about the way my pulse races when Gideon enters the room. Nothing businesslike about how often I replay our night together, the desk episode, the surprising gentleness in his voice when he explains financial concepts I’d never considered.

It’s just Stockholm syndrome,I tell myself firmly.Or simple gratitude. Or maybe just good old-fashioned lust for an objectively attractive man who technically happens to be my husband.

Whatever it is, it can’t be real feelings. Those aren’t allowed. They’re explicitlyforbidden in a contract I willingly signed. Hell, Iwantedthat in the contract.

I hear Gideon’s footsteps returning and quickly compose myself, pushing down the confusion, the want, the fear that I’m already failing at the one thing I was determined to maintain in this arrangement: my emotional independence.

Get it together, Ava. Don’t fall for the script of your own fake marriage. This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a business transaction with an expiration date.

But as Gideon reappears in the doorway, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, I wonder if perhaps I’ve miscalculated just how dangerous this arrangement might be.

And I’m not talking about my freedom here, or even my art.

But my heart.

20

Gideon

The moment the emergency call comes in, I know something’s wrong. Jonas never interrupts my personal time unless it’s critical. I excuse myself from Ava and her friend Lucy, stepping into my home office and closing the door behind me.

“What’s happened?” I ask without preamble.

“We have a problem.” Jonas’s voice is tight. “Blackwell’s been digging into your marriage.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Define ‘digging.’”

“He’s hired private investigators. They’ve been asking questions about how you and Ava met, how long you’ve been together. They’re looking for inconsistencies.”

“Fuck.” I pace to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline that usually calms me. Not today. “How do you know this?”

“One of his investigators approached Dean Wess at the gallery. Offered him money for information about Ava’s show and your attendance patterns. Dean called me immediately.”

At least Wess had the loyalty to warn us. I make a mental note to acquire one of his more expensive pieces as thanks.

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