Page 64 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“I prefer Ava,” I mumble.

Elliott smiles patiently. “Of course, Ava. Let’s begin with the basics. The media and Blackwell’s people will be looking for any hint that your marriage isn’t genuine. Your body language, your responses to questions, even your facial expressions will be scrutinized.”

“No pressure,” I say, feeling heat creep up my neck.

“First, let’s practice some common questions.” Elliott flips open a sleek leather notebook. “How did you and Gideon meet?”

I recite our rehearsed story about the gallery mistaken identity, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “He came back later pretending to be someone named John so he could talk to me without his reputation getting in the way.”

“Good content, but your delivery needs work,” Elliott says. “You’re looking down, playing with your clothing. It makes the listener think you’re not being truthful. Like you’re up to something.”

Maybe because Iamup to something?

“Try again,” he instructs. “This time, make eye contact with me. Smile naturally when you mention how you felt. Touch your heart slightly when you describe the connection.”

Gideon turns from the window, his gray eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

I clear my throat and try again, forcing myself to maintain eye contact with Elliott, adding a smile thatfeels plastic on my face. “We met at my art show. I actually mistook him for gallery staff.”

“And how did that make you feel when you discovered his true identity?” Elliott prompts.

“Mortified,” I say honestly. “But also... intrigued.”

“Better,” Elliott nods. “Now let’s try something more personal. What attracted you to Gideon?”

The question catches me off guard. We’ve rehearsed our meeting story, but not this.

“Um...” My mind races. “His confidence.” The words come more easily than expected. “The way he sees straight through pretense. How he notices details others miss.” My voice grows steadier. “And he surprised me. He’s not just the ruthless businessman everyone thinks he is.”

Gideon shifts his weight, and I catch a flicker of something in his expression before it disappears behind his usual mask.

“Excellent,” Elliott says. “That felt authentic.”

Because itwas. Shit.

“Now,” Elliott continues, “public displays of affection. Manhattan society expects a certain level of propriety, but also clear signs of connection. We need to calibrate your comfort level.”

For the next hour, Elliott walks us through appropriate touches. Hand holding, the light brush of fingers against a back, the way Gideon should guide me through a room with his hand at my waist. Each demonstration brings him closer, his cologne filling my senses. Citrus and amber and all the darker notes.

“The eyes are crucial,” Elliott explains. “They call them the windows to the soul for a reason. Nothing reveals insincerity faster.”

He instructs Gideon to sit beside me on the sofa. “Now, look at each other as if you’re sharinga private moment in the middle of a crowded event. Don’t overthink it. This isn’t about performance. It’s about connection.”

Easy for you to say. Your livelihood doesn’t depend on convincing people you’re in love with a man who explicitly forbids actual feelings.

Gideon turns toward me, his knees nearly touching mine. Our eyes meet, and something catches in my throat. Yesterday’s kiss fills my mind. The unexpected warmth of his lips, the slight pressure of his hands cupping my face, the way my body responded without consulting my brain first.

Great timing. Definitely a moment that should be filed under “Things To Definitely Not Think About During Professional Training Sessions.”

But it’s like trying not to think about pink elephants. Once the thought appears, it’s all I can see. The heat rises in my cheeks as I remember how I’d clutched his shirt, how what started as performance spiraled into something that felt dangerously real. My lobster blush is making a grand appearance. I can feel it. Any second now Hayes is going to offer me a bowl of melted butter and a bib.

Gideon’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he can read the direction of my thoughts. There’s something almost predatory in the way he watches me now. Like he’s remembering, too. My heart hammers against my ribs so loudly I’m certain everyone in the room can hear it. I bite my lower lip without thinking, then immediately release it when his gaze drops to my mouth.

“That’s...” Elliott clears his throat. “That’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

I break eye contact first, feeling my cheeks flameeven further, if that’s possible. The cushion shifts as Gideon stands abruptly.

“We should take a break,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.

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