Page 80 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Ava crosses her arms, defensive. “It wasmypainting. My choice.”

“I know.” I soften my tone. “I just thought it was incredible work.”

She seems surprised by the compliment. “Thank you.”

“It was Celeste, wasn’t it?” I ask, finally addressing what’s been weighing on my mind. “The fire woman in your painting.”

She nods. “How did you know?”

“The way you captured her... destructive, all-consuming.” I take a deep breath. “After what Vanessa said at the gala, I figured you must have put it together.”

“I’ve been wondering about her,” Ava admits. “Can I ask... what happened with Celeste? If I’m stepping too far, that’s fine, too. You don’t have to answer.”

Part of me wants to deflect, to say it’s not important, but that’s not why I brought this up. I want someone to know. I wantherto know.

“She was a business partner,” I say finally, the words scraping my throat. “And more.”

“More?”

“We were involved.” I can’t look at her while I say this. “Romantically.”

Ava nods like she already suspected as much. “And what happened?”

“She played me for a fucking fool.” The anger rises fresh, as if it were yesterday and not four years ago. “Gained my trust professionally. Then personally. Set up shell companies, manipulated contracts, diverted funds. By the time I discovered what was happening, she’d stolen seventy million and disappeared.”

Ava’s eyes widen. “Jesus.”

“The money wasn’t even the worst part.” The words are coming faster now, things I’ve never told anyone except my lawyers. “I trusted her. Let her see parts of me no one else had. And the whole time, shewas planning, cataloging weaknesses, finding ways to exploit every vulnerability.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It was calculated from the beginning. Everything. Every touch. Every word.” I laugh bitterly. “Every time she said she loved me.”

Ava reaches for my hand, her fingers warm against mine. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“I don’t need pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s understanding.” She holds my gaze steadily. “I’ve had people who wanted me to fail... because my art meant something to me, and they couldn’t stand that.” She shrugs, but I can see old pain in the gesture. “People who betray you like that, they don’t just take things. They try to take parts of you.”

Something loosens in my chest at her words. She gets it. Not just the financial loss, but the deeper theft.

“After Celeste,” I hear myself saying, “I promised myself I’d never let anyone that close again. Never trust like that.”

She glances nervously over her shoulder, toward the party inside, as if worried someone might hear her next words. Apparently satisfied that no one is within earshot, she leans toward me and whispers: “Is that why you added the no emotional involvement clause?”

I nod, suddenly aware of how much I’ve revealed. Of how she’s drawn out more than anyone has in years.

“Makes sense,” she says, not pushing further. “Thank you for telling me.”

It’s my turn to glance toward the party behind us. Then I whisper back: “You say it like you didn’t want the clause as well...”

She smiles sadly and responds softly: “That’s fair. Ididwant it. I guess I was angry and I didn’t want to get hurt.”

I nod slowly. “We guard our hearts well, don’twe?”

“Maybe a little too well,” she agrees.

We stand in silence for a moment, gazing down at the street below.

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