Page 88 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Exactly,” I agree, adjusting my tie. “Now they’ll never be able to prove it’s a… you know.”Fake marriage.I don’t say the words, just to be on the safe side. While I doubt Blackwell has bugged my public office, it never hurts to err on the side of caution.

Still, this little talk we’re having… we’re both lying. And we both know it. But acknowledging the truth would mean facing the feelings building between us, and that would violate the central clause of our contract.

“We should head home,” I say, gathering my jacket.

“Right.” She smooths her hair. “This doesn’t change anything about our…you know.”

“Of course not.” I keep my voice neutral, professional.

She nods, relief and something else—disappointment?—flashing across her face.

“You were right, I should have closed the blinds,” I add, glancing at the windows. “We don’t really need Blackwell filming this—”

“Why? We’re doing exactly what we’re supposed to,” she interrupts. Then instinctively lowers her voice. “We’re acting like a married couple who can’t keep their hands off each other. Which we are.”

I nod.

As we ride the elevator down in silence, standing further apart than necessary, I can’t shake the thought that’s been haunting me since hergraduation: this fake marriage is becoming dangerously real, at least for me. And based on the way Ava’s avoiding my eyes, maybe for her too.

The problem is, I’m not sure either of us knows what to do about it.

29

Ava

I’m hunched over a sleek corporate laptop Gideon lent me at the breakfast bar, squinting at real estate listings when I hear his bedroom door open. My entire body tenses like I’ve been electrocuted.

Act natural. Just a normal morning with your fake husband who definitely didn’t bend you over his desk last night.

I take a deliberate sip of coffee and click to the next potential gallery space with what I hope looks like intense professional focus. Spoiler alert: I haven’t registered a single detail about any of the properties I’ve been “reviewing” for the past forty minutes.

“Good morning,” Gideon says, his voice perfectly neutral as he heads to the coffee machine.

“Morning,” I reply without looking up. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Look at us. So casual. So professional. Nobody would ever guess your underwear is currently residing in a trash can at King Enterprises.

I feel my cheeks heating up and bury my face deeper in the laptop screen. The gallery listing infront of me shows a bright space with exposed brick walls in Chelsea. Perfect lighting, decent square footage, and completely incapable of distracting me from the memories of last night.

Gideon pours his coffee and leans against the counter. I can feel him watching me, but I refuse to look up. If I look at him, he’ll see everything written all over my face. The memory of his hands on me, his mouth, the way he growled “good girl” when I—

STOP IT. Gallery spaces. Focus on gallery spaces.

“Find anything promising?” he asks, his tone so businesslike we might as well be discussing quarterly reports.

I nod, still not meeting his eyes. “A few. There’s a great space in Chelsea. Good foot traffic, excellent natural light.”

“Smart location. The art crowd there has money to spend.”

The conversation feels absurdly formal considering that twelve hours ago I was moaning his name loud enough for half of Midtown to hear. The contrast is almost funny, in a deeply unfunny way. And thank god everyone at his workplace had gone home.

I click another listing. “I’m also looking at a smaller place in the West Village. More intimate setting, potentially lower overhead.” It feels a little odd planning for something months away when I don’t even know what I’ll be doing next week.

Or who I’ll be after all this ends, a little voice whispers in my head.

I dismiss the voice. I’m purposely looking at listings to remind myself that yes, thiswillend.

So don’t get attached.

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