Page 93 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

That’s what troubles me as I wait for Ava in the building’s reception area.

I wasn’t faking anything.

When she emerges from her own interview, I search her face for signs of distress. She looks surprisingly calm, almost confident.

“How did it go?” I ask as we walk toward the exit.

“Better than expected,” she says. “They seemed satisfied with my answers about the trust arrangement. I think my art background actually helped. I explained how I evaluate potential compared to established value, like in the Riverside project.”

Smart. I hadn’t considered that parallel.

“What about you?” she asks. “How was your interview?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit as we walk out the door, our security detail in tow.

Outside, my driver holds the door of the custom built Cadillac. My security team hops into the SUV behind it, and once we’re inside with the privacy screen up, Ava turns to me.

“You’re notsure?That doesn’t sound like Gideon King, master of every situation.” Her tone is light but her eyes are searching. “What happened in there?”

I stare out the window, weighing how much to reveal. “I may have lost my temper.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “May have?You?Mr. Ice-Cold-Under-Pressure?”

“They suggested you were manipulating me. Using me for financial gain.”

“Oh.” Her voice softens. “And that made you angry?”

“It was unprofessional,” I say, avoiding her gaze.

“That’s not an answer.” She tilts her head, studying me. “The Gideon King I know doesn’t care what people think about him or his business. But you defended me anyway. Why?”

The car slows for traffic, and I’m trapped in this conversation I don’t want to have. “They were questioning your integrity. I corrected them.”

A small smile plays at her lips. “You lost your cool. For me.”

“Don’t make it into something it’s not,” I warn.

“What exactly is it, then?” she challenges.

I turn to her, ready with some dismissive response, but the words die in my throat. She’s looking at me with perfect understanding, seeing right through the walls I’ve carefully constructed. No one reads me this easily. Not even Jonas, who’s known me for decades.

“You’re upset because you meant it,” she says quietly. “Whatever you said in there wasn’t just part of our act, was it?”

My jaw tightens. She’s right, and we both know it.

“We should focus on next steps,” I say instead. “If the SEC investigation escalates—”

“Always deflecting.” She shakes her head, but she’s not angry. “It’s okay, you know. To care.”

“That wasn’t our agreement.”

“No,” she agrees. “It wasn’t.”

The car starts moving again, but something between us has shifted. The carefully maintained distance feels impossible to restore. She’s seen beneath my mask, and I don’t know how to put it back on.

“Gideon,” she says softly, “thank you. For defending me.”

I nod, unable to trust my voice. The realization settles over me like a weight: this woman knows me. Really knows me. And that terrifies me more than any SEC investigation or corporate takeover ever could.

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