Page 84 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Gideon’s expression hardens slightly. “His loss. The art world’s gain.”

Lucy squeezes my hand. “Told you so. For years.”

Standing there at my graduation exhibition with my best friend and my fake husband, I’m struck by the bizarre reality of my life. This powerful man who entered my world through a business arrangement now stands beside me at my most vulnerable professional moment, seemingly genuinely proud of my accomplishment.

And the worst part? I care that he’s here. I care what he thinks of my work.

When exactly did that happen?

I glance at his profile as he studies my grandmother’s portrait again, and a truth I’ve been avoiding settles over me like the final brushstroke on a canvas: despite our careful contract with its emotional boundaries, despite my determination to keep this arrangement strictly business, Gideon King has affected me.

And I’m not sure how long I can keep up the charade.

How long I can pretend to be unaffected.

Well, shit.

28

Gideon

The financial reports blur in front of me as I stare at them for what feels like the hundredth time today. I run my hand through my hair, frustrated at what I’m seeing.

“Fuck.” I slam the folder down on my desk. “Have you figured out who on our team is feeding Blackwell information yet?”

The thought has been eating at me all day. Someone I trust is betraying me. Again. The familiar acid taste of betrayal burns the back of my throat.

“We’ll find the mole,” Jonas assures me. “I’ve already started looking into unusual communications, access patterns—”

“I want them destroyed when we find them,” I cut in. “Professionally. Personally. I want them to regret the day they decided to fuck with me.”

Jonas gives me a measured look. “We will handle it appropriately. About your seven o’clock...”

I glance at my watch. Six thirty. Another meeting in a day full of meetings, all while trying to figure out who’s feeding our plans to Blackwell. Fantastic.

“Cancel it,” I tell him. “I need to review these property assessments and figure out our next move.”

“Already done,” Jonas says. “I read the room. You weren’t exactly in a diplomatic mood.”

Thank fuck for Jonas. He’s been by my side long enough to know when I’m about to bite someone’s head off. Not that I can blame him for his concern. After discovering Blackwell’s play, at work I’ve been burning with the kind of rage that makes people clear hallways when they see me coming.

“Thanks.” I loosen my tie, feeling like it’s choking me. “What about the construction timeline for Riverside? If Blackwell is rushing his project—”

“We’re still ahead,” Jonas interrupts. “As long as we keep moving forward with Ava’s original vision, we maintain the advantage of being first to market.”

Ava. Her name pulls something tight in my chest. Her graduation exhibition keeps replaying in my mind. The pride in her eyes as she showed me her work. The reimagined portrait of her grandmother that clearly meant so much to her. The way she lit up when talking about what she created in that Brooklyn studio I initially questioned.

“The difference is authenticity,” I say, more to myself than to Jonas. “Ava actually understands the creative mindset. Blackwell’s just copying a concept he stole.”

Jonas gives me a long look. “You really believe in her vision, don’t you?”

“It’s a solid business strategy,” I reply automatically.

“That’s not what I asked.”

I ignore him, turning back to the reports. Jonas knows me too well, and I’m not in the mood for his insights about my wife.

Myfakewife.

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