Page 66 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

She nods, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “As I’ll ever be.”

We’ve been practicing for this. The subtle touches. The loving glances. The carefully rehearsed story ofour whirlwind romance. But despite all the practice, there’s an authenticity to how her hand rests in the crook of my elbow that I wasn’t expecting.

“Mr. King! Wonderful to see you.” Bernard Bronson approaches, his wife trailing beside him. “And this must be the new Mrs. King we’ve heard so much about.”

“Ava, this is Bernard Bronson and his wife Margaret. Bernard, Margaret, my wife, Ava.”

I watch her shake their hands with genuine warmth. She’s definitely getting better at this. Gone is the deer-in-headlights look from her first society event. She’s learned to mirror their social rhythms without losing herself.

“We were surprised to hear about your sudden marriage,” Margaret says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Such a whirlwind.”

“When you know, you know,” I reply smoothly, pulling Ava closer. “Some opportunities are too precious to waste time on.”

“How business-like of you,” Margaret laughs. “Approaching marriage like an acquisition.”

I feel Ava stiffen beside me.

“Actually,” I say, voice steady, “it was more like discovering a masterpiece no one else recognized. Sometimes the most valuable things aren’t immediately obvious to everyone.”

Bernard laughs appreciatively while Margaret’s smile tightens. Ava squeezes my elbow.

“If you’ll excuse us,” I say, guiding Ava toward the bar. “I promised my wife a drink before dinner.”

Once we’re out of earshot, I lean down. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better than last time,” she replies. “I’m not spending every second terrified I’ll use the wrong forkor call someone by the wrong title. The training session with Elliot definitely helped.”

“Two champagnes,” I tell the bartender. then turn back to Ava.

She raises an eyebrow. “Champagne? You sure you trust me with that? Considering me and champagne have a... history.”

I smile. “My suit is overdue for a dry-cleaning anyway.”

She laughs, then runs her gaze across the crowd.

“What do you see when you look around the room?” I ask her. “From an artist’s perspective?”

“What do I see?” She pauses. “Half these people are wearing masks so obvious I could sketch them.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She nods, accepting her champagne glass from the bartender. “The well-dressed man by the pillar? His would be chrome, reflective but cold, with a permanent smile etched into the metal that never changes no matter who he’s talking to. The society matron in emerald there? She has a porcelain mask with a painted-on expression, cracking slightly at the edges where the real person is trying to break through. That board director from your company on the far side of the bar? His is a two-faced carnival mask, presentable and attentive on the side he shows most people, but when he turns to check his phone, the profile reveals someone calculating and sharp. And the power couple by the entrance? Their masks are identical gold-leaf creations, beautiful but so fragile they’d shatter if anyone touched them directly.” She takes a sip of champagne. “The masks people create to navigate rooms like this are more revealing thanthey realize.”

“Interesting.” I study her. “And what about my mask?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her eyes meet mine, those flecks of gold catching the light. She studies my face with an artist’s intensity. “Yours would be carved from dark wood, weathered but resilient, with fascinating contradictions...” She hesitates, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face. She looks away, taking a quick sip of champagne. “Let’s just say yours is the most interesting.”

I sense she’s stepped back from something too personal, too revealing. For a moment, the line between performance and reality blurs dangerously between us.

“Gideon King, as I live and breathe.”

Fuck.

I recognize the voice before I turn. Vanessa Clarke approaches in a crimson dress cut so low it borders on obscene. Those ridiculous fake tits of hers, plumped up since I last suffered her presence, threaten to spill out like overfilled balloons. Her smile is sharp as a blade.

What did I ever see in her?

“Vanessa. I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”

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