Page 63 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“I know you can.” In the weeks I’ve known her, Ava has consistently surprised me with her resilience, her quick adaptability. It’s one of the reasons I chose her for this arrangement.

One of many reasons, a voice in my head clarifies. I silence it ruthlessly.

“There’s something else you should know,” I add, deciding full disclosure is necessary now. “There may be a leak in my organization. Someone feeding Blackwell information.”

Her eyes widen. “Who?”

“I don’t know yet. But until I do, be careful what you say around anyone. Even the staff.”

She nods, processing this new complication. Then, with a determined set to her jaw, she leans closer to me.

“If we’re being watched,” she says quietly, “shouldn’t you be kissing me right now? Real husbands kiss their wives when they’re this close.”

The unexpected challenge in her voice sends heat coursing through me. For a strategic business arrangement, this woman has an uncanny ability to unbalance me.

“You’re right,” I murmur, cupping her face in my hands.

I kiss her with careful restraint,mindful of the boundaries we’ve established. But when her hands come up to grip my shirt, and her lips push against mine to deepen the contact, something shifts. The kiss transforms from performance to something dangerously authentic.

When we finally part, both slightly breathless, I find myself fighting an unexpected urge to pull her closer again. To forget why we’re doing this.

“Was that convincing enough?” she asks, a slight tremor in her voice belying her attempt at nonchalance.

I tuck away the unwelcome desire her kiss has awakened.

This is still business,an internal voice growls. Complicated now, but still business.

“It’s a start,” I tell her, offering a smile I hope appears more confident than I feel. “We’ll convince them, Ava. Together.”

And as she smiles back, tentative but determined, I realize we’ve crossed some invisible line. This arrangement has evolved beyond the clean, contractual boundaries I’d envisioned.

I just hope I can remember where those boundaries were supposed to be.

The kitchen door swings open, and Marianne appears carrying a steaming dish that fills the room with the rich aroma of saffron and seafood.

“Your lobster risotto, Mr. King,” she announces.

I glance at Ava, whose expression suggests food is the furthest thing from her mind at this moment. I recognize the feeling.

“Thank you, Marianne,” I say, standing. “But I’m going to postpone lunch. Feel free to stay and eat with my wife.”

Food seems remarkably unimportant compared tothe situation with Blackwell. Not to mention the lingering sensation of Ava’s lips against mine.

Fuck.

The business at hand has become considerably more complicated, and not just because of Blackwell’s investigation.

21

Ava

I’m sitting in Elliott Hayes’ sleek downtown office, perched on the edge of a leather sofa. Hayes’ assistant closed all the blinds when we arrived, transforming the wall of windows into a fortress of beige fabric. “Standard procedure for high-profile clients,” he explained with practiced discretion. “You never know who might be watching from neighboring buildings.” The irony isn’t lost on me. Even here, in what should be a private consultation, we’re still paranoid about Blackwell’s spies.

Elliott Hayes sits across from me, his perfectly tailored suit and impossibly white teeth giving him the appearance of someone who stepped out of a magazine ad for “How to Look Intimidatingly Perfect.” Gideon stands near the closed blinds, his broad shoulders tense as he absently traces a pattern on the beige fabric with one finger. Probably contemplating which company to buy next.

This is fine. Totally normal Tuesday. Just learning how to pretend I’m madly in love with my fake billionaire husbandfrom a man who charges more per hour than I used to make in a month.

“Mrs. King,” Elliott says, and I still jolt slightly at the name. “Today’s training is essential for maintaining the narrative of your relationship.”

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