Page 79 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Fuck,” I mutter, accepting the whiskey he pours. “Where are the Hartman warehouses located?”

“Three blocks from our Riverside Corridor project.”

The whiskey burns down my throat, matching the fury building inside me. “And let me guess. They’re planning to turn them into creative hubs for artists and tech startups?”

Jonas nods grimly. “Press release uses almost the exact same language as our internal documents. ‘Authentic industrial conversion attractive to tech startups and design firms.’”

“Son of a bitch.” I set the glass down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim. “The timing is too perfect. Someone leaked our plans.”

“I’ve already started compiling a list of everyone with access to the Riverside specs.”

“Good. I want background checks run on everyone. Full surveillance on their communications going back six months.” I pace the length of Jonas’s study, pulse pounding in my temples. “Nobody steals from me. Not again.”

Jonas watches me with concern. “You think it’s someone high up?”

“Has to be. The board only approved Ava’s proposal yesterday.” My fingers flex, wanting to crush something. “This isn’t the work of some random assistant. It’s someone with detailed knowledge and access.”

“I’ll handle it personally,” Jonas assures me.

We discuss security protocols for another fifteen minutes, but my mind keeps circling back to the same dark thought: betrayal from within. Again. Just like with Celeste.

When we return to the party, I scan the room until I locate Ava. She’s talking with Sarah by the windows, her emerald dress catching the light when she laughs. For a moment, watching her movements while she speaks, I forget about Blackwell and his stolen plans. So graceful. Everything about her. So... perfect.

She catches my eyes, and grins. I return the smile with a heavy heart. Sarah abruptly excuses herself, leaving her alone.

“Everything okay?” she asks when I approach, concern evident in those expressive eyes.

“Business. Nothing to worry about tonight.” The lie comes easily. I’m not ready to discuss the leak with her here. “Would you like another dance?”

“No more dancing,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She lowers her voice, and glances from side to side to make sure no one is close enough to hear, then whispers: “I think the guests have seen enough ofourperformancefor one night.”

Performance. Right. The reminder stings more than it should.

“Then perhaps some air?” I suggest loudly, nodding toward the terrace doors.

She shrugs. “Sure.”

Outside, the spring night is cool enough that I slip my jacket around her shoulders without thinking. She pulls it closer, inhaling slightly, and I wonder if she’s breathing in my scent the way I always do with hers.

“So what did Blackwell do now?” she asks, breaking the silence.

Smart woman. “I’d rather not discuss it tonight.”

“That bad, huh?”

I lean against the stone balustrade, looking out over the small garden below. “I need a distraction.” I pause, gathering courage. “Tell me about the painting in your studio.”

“Which one?”

“The one with me and the fire. The woman consuming me in flames.” I’ve been thinking about it for days, unable to get it out of my mind.

Her shoulders tense slightly. “I destroyed it.”

“You what?” I can’t hide my shock. “Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know.” She looks away. “I wasn’t happy with it.”

“That’s bullshit.” The words come out sharper than intended. “That painting was powerful. Raw.”

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