Page 70 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

He stands in the doorway, tie loosened, jacket discarded, white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it. It’s his tell when he’s stressed or tired.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking particularly apologetic. “Late meeting. Saw the light under the door.” He pauses. “I have something for you.”

I notice for the first time that he’s holding a garment bag draped carefully over one arm.

My eyebrows shoot up. “For me?”

“Don’t look so shocked. I’m capable of gift-giving.” He steps into the room and holds out the bag. “It’s a small apology for the gala fiasco.”

I take the bag, suddenly aware of the paint smeared across my fingertips. “I’m going to get paint all over it.”

“It’ll survive,” he says dryly.

With cautious fingers, I unzip the garment bag and gasp softly. Inside is a blue dress. It’s the same rich, deep blue as the gown Vanessa had ruined with her “accidental” wine spill. But this one is a more casual evening version, elegantly simple but unmistakably luxurious.

“It’s by the same designer,” he says,watching my reaction closely. “I thought you might like something you could wear more than once.”

Something warm and unwelcome unfurls in my chest. The dress is perfect, exactly my style and size. I’m very careful to keep my paint-smeared fingers on the garment bag.

Definitely don’t want to ruin this one.

“This is... wow.”Eloquent as always, Ava.“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know I didn’t,” he says simply.

A sneaky thought occurs to me: I should probably keep the tags on this one. Return it, either before or after our arrangement ends. Because this feels too personal, too much like a real gift from a real husband.

I can feel heat creeping up my neck and settling in my cheeks. Stupid fair complexion.

“I’ll... try it on later.” I carefully zip the bag back up. “Thank you. Really.”

He nods, and for a moment, something almost soft crosses his face before the mask slips back into place

I set the dress aside, and suddenly realize what I’m working on and lunge for a cloth to throw over the canvas. The movement is so abrupt and obvious that it might as well have been a big sign pointing to exactly what I don’t want him to see.

His eyebrow rises. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing. Just... it’s not finished.” My face only gets warmer.Full lobster mode engaged!

“I’m not a critic,” he says, stepping into my sanctuary. “I’m just curious.”

The studio seems to shrink with his presence. He’s too big, too much, taking up all the air with his expensive cologne and the faint scent of whiskey onhis breath. I back up against the easel, as if I could physically shield it with my body.

“It’s private,” I say, trying to sound firm but hearing the slight waver in my voice.

His eyes narrow slightly. “It’s still my penthouse...”

He steps closer, his gaze moving over the other canvases leaning against the wall. I watch his expression change as he recognizes something in them.

“These are new,” he says, bending slightly to examine one.

I shrug, aiming for casual but probably landing somewhere around panic-stricken. “Just experimenting with some stuff.”

“There’s a recurring theme.” He glances at me, then back at the paintings. “A figure.”

My heart is hammering against my ribs. I’m caught between wanting to deny everything and the artist in me that craves understanding, recognition.

“Abstract figures,” I correct weakly. “Exploring power dynamics and vulnerability through color and form.”

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