Page 81 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Why did you paint her that way?” I ask. “Consuming me in fire?”

Ava looks thoughtful. “Because that’s what betrayal does. It burns. It destroys. But the thing is, Gideon, you’re still standing. The fire didn’t consume you completely.”

Her insight stuns me. This woman has seen more in a glimpse than people who’ve known me for years.

“I should get back,” I say abruptly, and just like that my walls slam back into place. The vulnerability feels too raw, too dangerous. I regret sharing as much as I did about Celeste, but what’s done is done. “Jonas probably needs help with hosting duties.”

Disappointment flickers across her face, but she nods. “Of course.”

As I turn to leave, she calls my name softly. I pause.

“For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, “I think Celeste was an idiot. Not for the con, but for not realizing what she had in you was worth more than any amount of money.”

Her words follow me back into the party, echoing in my mind. Dangerous words. Words that make me want things I’ve forbidden myself to want.

I spend the rest of the evening playing the part of the devoted husband while keeping careful distance. Business conversations. Drinks with Jonas’s colleagues. Anything to avoid being alone with Ava again.

Because for a few minutes on that terrace, I forgot our arrangement was just business. Forgot about thecontract. Forgot every promise I made to myself after Celeste.

And that scares the shit out of me more than any corporate espionage or hostile takeover ever could.

27

Ava

Istand in the corner of the gallery space, trying to breathe normally while watching a stream of visitors move through my exhibition. My graduation show. The culmination of four years of hard work, sleep deprivation, and more student loan debt than I care to think about. Debt that is now completely paid off, thanks to Gideon.

Just breathe, Ava. They’re only people looking at pieces of your soul displayed on canvas. No pressure.

“Stop hiding in the corner,” Lucy appears beside me, wine cup in one hand and my arm in the other. “This is your moment. Own it.”

“I’m not hiding,” I protest. “I’m strategically observing.”

Lucy snorts. “You’re lurking like you crashed someone else’s exhibition. These are your paintings, genius.” She hands me her cup. “Drink this. It’ll help with your deer-in-the-headlights situation.”

The Parsons exhibition hall buzzes with conversation, the familiar scent of wine from plastic cups mixing with perfume and that distinct gallery smell,what I like to call Lysol and possibility. My hands won’t stop fidgeting with the sleeve of my black dress, the one Lucy insisted I wear because “it makes you look like a real artist instead of someone who fell into a paint bucket.”

“Has Gideon shown up yet?” Lucy whispers, scanning the crowd.

“No, and please don’t make a thing about it if he does.” Little does she know, every few minutes my eyes dart to the entrance, looking for him, but I spot only my security detail. “He has an empire to run. This is just a school thing.”

Not that I care if myfakehusband misses the most important night of my academic career. That would be pathetic.

Lucy gives me a look that says she’s not buying my nonchalance. “Right. Just a ‘school thing’ that represents everything you’ve worked for since—”

“Ava, darling, this collection is remarkable.” Dean Wess appears at my side, interrupting Lucy’s pep talk. “The evolution of your technique since that first student showcase at my gallery is extraordinary.”

“Thanks, Dean.” I force myself to stop scanning the door. “Having that early exhibition opportunity really helped me find my direction.”

And introduced me to a billionaire who would eventually propose a fake marriage to save his business empire. Thanks for the career boost.

“That piece in particular,” Dean points to the large canvas dominating the far wall, “is generating quite a buzz.”

My chest tightens with pride as I follow his gaze to my reimagined portrait of my grandmother. It’s the centerpiece of my exhibition. It’s not as good as the original my stepfather sold, but it captures her spirit. Her hands are painted mid-gesture, the waythey always moved when she told stories about her own artistic attempts in her youth.

When I painted it, I spent long nights squinting at the ceiling, terrified I’d forgotten some crucial detail of her face. The exact crinkle of her eyes when she smiled or the particular tilt of her chin. Honestly, half the reason I recreated it was pure self-preservation. My way of cementing her image in my mind before time could steal that from me, too.

“It’s the most personal piece here,” I admit.

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