Page 65 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Certainly,” Elliott agrees. “You’re both doing remarkably well. Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes to discuss specific upcoming events.”

Gideon strides from the room without looking back. I exhale slowly, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.

“May I use your restroom?” I ask Elliott, needing a minute myself.

He points me down the hallway, and I escape gratefully, splashing cold water on my burning face once I’m safely behind the closed door.

Get it together, Ava. This is exactly what you’re being paid for. Acting. Performance. Nothing real.

But the flutter in my stomach when Gideon looked at me felt real enough.

I dry my hands and step into the hallway, pausing when I hear Gideon’s voice from a small conference room across the hall, door slightly ajar.

“It’s going fine, Jonas,” he says, his tone all business again. “Hayes thinks we’ll be convincing enough.”

A pause as Jonas speaks on the other end.

“No, there’s no concern about that,” Gideon continues. “We both understand this is purely business. The terms of our agreement are perfectly clear. No emotional involvement.”

Another pause.

“She’s professional about it. That’s why I chose her in the first place. Once this Blackwell situation is resolved, we proceedas planned.”

My chest tightens. Of course that’s what he thinks. It’s what I should think, too.

I slip away before he can discover me eavesdropping, returning to the office where Elliott is reviewing notes.

“Ready to continue?” he asks brightly.

“Absolutely,” I respond with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Let’s make sure this performance is flawless.”

Because that’s all it is. A performance. And I need to remember that before I do something stupid like develop real feelings for a man who sees me as nothing more than a business solution with an expiration date.

When Gideon returns, his face is unreadable again, all traces of our earlier connection carefully erased. He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and I feel the heat of him even through the fabric of my blouse.

“Now,” Elliott says, “let’s discuss how you’ll handle the Bronson charity gala this weekend. All eyes will be on Manhattan’s newest power couple.”

Power couple. What a joke.

But as Gideon’s hand closes over mine in a gesture that looks loving to anyone watching but feels like a business handshake to me, I remind myself that I signed up for this. Twelve more months of pretending, and then I’ll have everything I’ve worked for. My own gallery, artistic freedom, financial security.

Everything except someone who actually loves me. But that was never part of the deal anyway.

“We’re ready,” Gideon tells Elliott, his voice confident. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand, an improvised gesture that sends unwanted shivers up my arm.

I force myself to lean slightly into his side, playing my part perfectly. Because that’s what artists do, right? We create illusions so convincing that sometimes, if we’re not careful, we start believing them ourselves.

22

Gideon

The Bronson charity gala buzzes with Manhattan’s elite. I adjust my bow tie, scanning the opulent ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the crowd. Old money mingling with new, power circulating like currency.

Ava stands beside me looking ethereal in a midnight blue gown that makes her skin glow. The dress was a compromise. She insisted on paying for it herself but accepted my stylist’s recommendation. The result is breathtaking. Every eye in the room has noticed.

Unlike our first charity function where she practically vibrated with anxiety, tonight she carries herself with a newfound poise. Her shoulders are relaxed, her smile less forced. She’s learning.

“Ready?” I ask, offering my arm as Elliott trained us.

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