Page 91 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I force myself to join in, but inside I’m crumbling. Whatever connection we shared last night has vanished, replaced by this hollow performance that feels more fake than ever.

When Gideon excuses himself to take a call, Jonas leans toward me. “He seems different with you,” he says quietly, the concern evident in his voice. “What happened?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.” If only he knew.

Later, as we’re leaving, Gideon’s phone rings again. He steps aside to answer it, his expression darkening as he listens.

“Everything okay?” I ask when he returns.

“Fine,” he says curtly. “Just business.”

In the car, he finally breaks the silence. “The SEC is investigating the trust arrangement.”

My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’ll want to interview us. Separately.” His jaw is tight. “They suspect our marriage might not be legitimate.”

Well, they’re right about that.

“No doubt Blackwell had a hand in this,” he continues.

“So what do we do?” I ask, fear rising in my throat.

Gideon stares straight ahead, his profile hard in the passing streetlights. He lowers his voice and leans closer to me so the driver can’t hear. “We stick to our story. We’re in love. End of discussion.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. We have to convince strangers our marriage is real when we can’t even look each other in the eye after what happened between us.

I turn to look out the window again, watching the lights of the city blur together. We’re farther apart now than we’ve ever been, and I have no idea how to bridge the gap.

Or if I should even try.

30

Gideon

The SEC offices smell like stale coffee and bureaucracy. I sit across from two investigators in identical gray suits, maintaining the same composed expression I’ve worn through countless high-stakes negotiations. My lawyer sits silently beside me, legal pad at the ready.

While we wait for the investigators to organize their materials, my mind drifts to what happened two nights ago in my office. Ava, stopping by with that glass of scotch, her eyes challenging me as she sat on my desk. “We’ll give them a good show,” I’d said, and fuck if we didn’t deliver.

I’ve replayed it too many times since then. Her body against my desk. The sounds she made when I told her she was a good girl. The way she looked at me afterward, flushed and vulnerable, before we both pretended it was nothing.

It was the first time I’d slipped since that fateful one-night stand. A moment of weakness I couldn’t afford to repeat. The contract was clear for a reason.Myreasons. Section 5, paragraph 3 wasn’t just legalese. It was self-preservation.

A mistake. That’s what it was. An alcohol-fueled, stress-induced mistake. Two glasses of scotch and I’d thrown away weeks of discipline. No more drinking around Ava. No more letting my guard down.

It was just physical release. Meaningless. A performance for potential surveillance, as we’d rationalized afterward. Nothing more.

So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about it?

I shift in my chair, forcing my attention back to the present. This investigation could threaten everything if I don’t stay focused. I need to be Gideon King, calculating businessman, not whatever version of myself emerged that night with Ava.

How many versions of mearethere? Fuck. I’m not even sure anymore. Let alone which one is the real me.

“Mr. King,” says the woman, Agent Michaels according to her badge, “we appreciate your cooperation today.”

I nod, keeping my posture relaxed but authoritative. “Happy to clear up any misunderstandings.”

The male investigator, Patterson, shuffles through a file. “Let’s discuss the timing of your marriage to Ava Redwood.”

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