Page 95 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

MWB... Mark William Blackwell? No way. That would be too obvious, right?

I open the first email and my stomach drops.

From:[email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Riverside Information

The figuresyou provided were helpful.

Our offeron the Hartman properties will move forward based on your intelligence. The deposit as discussed has been made to the offshore account.

We’ll needthe board meeting minutes as soon as they’re available.

- M

My breath catches.The Hartman properties. Those are the warehouses three blocks from our Riverside Corridor project. The ones Blackwell suddenly wanted to develop in exactly the same way we were developing ours.

I dig deeper, finding more emails. Meetings schedules. Confidential projections. Discussion of financial incentives. It’s all here. Irrefutable evidence that Burt is feeding information to Blackwell.

Holy. Shit.

My face flushes hot as anger and betrayal wash over me. Not for myself, but for Gideon. This man sits at his table, pretends to be loyal, all while selling him out.

The laptop suddenly pings with a new notification. A message appears in my company inbox:

From:[email protected]

Subject: Security Alert

Your 2:37pmsearch queries havebeen flagged.

You might reconsideryour line of inquiry, Mrs. King.

Unless you’re preparedfor what happens next.

Ice floods my veins.The timestamp of 2:37pm is exactly when I started searching Burt’s communications. This isn’t an automated system message. This is Burt, telling me he knows exactly what I’m doing.

Shit shit shit fuck and more shit.

I stare at the screen, my hands trembling. Common sense says I should take this straight to Gideon now. But another part of me, the stubborn, independent part, wants to gather more evidence first.

Because apparently self-preservation isn’t high on my list of priorities today.

I create a secure folder on my personal drive and methodically begin documenting what I’ve found. All the screenshots, email threads, timestamps. If I’m going to accuse one of Gideon’s high-level executives of betrayal, I need solid proof.

The sound of footsteps approaching my studio sends panic coursing through me. I quickly close the tabs and switch to a digital sketch program just as a knock comes at the door.

“Ava?” Gideon’s voice.

“Come in,” I call, hoping my voice sounds normal.

The door opens and Gideon stands there, suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Thesight of his muscular forearms should not be distracting right now, and yet here we are.

“Everything okay?” he asks, eyebrows drawing together. “You look flushed.”

As usual, my face is a human mood ring that broadcasts every emotion directly to the world.

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