Page 82 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Professor Marshall joins us, his salt-and-pepper hair more disheveled than usual. “Ms. Redwood, your technical execution has finally caught up with your emotional intelligence.” He nods approvingly at my work. “Though I must say, these pieces show a depth I hadn’t seen before.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

He rubs his temples thoughtfully, a gesture I’ve unconsciously adopted from him over the years. “There’s a vulnerability in your recent work. A willingness to expose raw feeling.” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Perhaps this whirlwind romance has been good for your art.”

My face immediately heats up. “I don’t think my personal life has anything to do with—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupts. “Art reflects life. Always has. And your recent pieces have heart in a way your earlier work, while technically proficient, sometimes lacked.”

Lucy squeezes my arm supportively but doesn’t help my case by adding, “I’ve been saying the same thing. There’s definitely a new emotional quality to her work lately.”

Before I can formulate a responsethat won’t incriminate me in this fake marriage, a small commotion at the door draws my attention.

And there he is.

Gideon King, looking like he stepped straight out of a business magazine cover despite the slight dishevelment that tells me he rushed here from work. His presence immediately changes the energy of the room. Heads turn, whispers start. His security detail takes positions by the door, joining my own, while he scans the crowd, finally locking eyes with me.

Stop it, heart. This flutter thing you’re doing, I won’t stand for it.

But my heart, apparently, has a mind of its own, and refuses to listen.

“Ah, and here’s the supportive husband now,” Professor Marshall says with a knowing smile before excusing himself.

Lucy leans in and whispers, “He actually came. And he looks like he ran here.”

“Shut up,” I mumble, feeling my cheeks burn hotter.

Gideon makes his way toward us, pausing briefly to study each piece he passes. When he reaches me, the scent of his cologne wraps around me like a familiar blanket.

“I apologize for being late,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Board meeting ran long.”

“You came,” I say stupidly, unable to hide my surprise.

His expression softens. “Of course I came. It’s your graduation exhibition.”

He could have sent flowers. Or a text. Or nothing at all. Our contract doesn’t obligate him to show up for school events.

Lucy clears her throat pointedly, and I startle back to reality.

“Gideon, you remember Lucy?”

“Of course.” He smiles warmly at her. “Good to see you again.”

“I was just telling Ava how proud of her I am,” Lucy says. “Her work has reached a whole new level.”

“I can see that.” His eyes meet mine. “Would you mind giving me a tour?”

Lucy winks at me behind Gideon’s back. “I’ll go refill my drink. Take your time.”

I guide him through the exhibition, explaining concepts and techniques, hyperaware of his proximity. He asks intelligent questions, making observations that show he’s actually paying attention, not just going through the motions for appearance’s sake.

“These larger pieces,” he notes, “they have a different quality than the ones in your penthouse workspace.”

“That’s because they were done in my Brooklyn studio.” I can’t help feeling a surge of pride. “The warehouse space allowed me to work at a larger scale, with this kind of natural light. It was worth every penny of the investment.”

“Clearly,” he agrees, studying a particularly large abstract. “These pieces couldn’t have been created in a confined space. The freedom of movement is evident in the brushwork.”

I blink at him, surprised by his insight. “That’s exactly right.”

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