Page 111 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Sorry,” she whispers, not turning around. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I was already up.” I hover awkwardly at the threshold. This isn’t part of our agreement. Comforting each other in the middle of the night wasn’t in the contract. “Are you okay?”

Stupid question. Obviously, she’s not okay.

She doesn’t answer, just keeps her back to me, shoulders trembling slightly.

Fuck the contract.

I cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed, keeping a careful distance. “Is it... us? This situation?” I gesture vaguely to the space between us, though she can’t see it. “I know this isn’t ideal. But it’ll be over soon enough.”

A harsh sound between a laugh and a sob escapes her. “That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

She shifts, turning to face me, and the sight of her tear-streaked face hits me like a physical blow. Her eyes are red-rimmed, mascara smudged below them. She looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen her, and something protective surges in my chest.

“She was the only one who supported me,” she whispers.

“Who?”

“My grandmother.” She glances at the door. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want my mother to hear.”

I’d forgotten her mother was still here, sleeping in the guest room. “Your grandmother,” I repeat softly. “The portrait your mother mentioned earlier...”

Ava’s body goes rigid. “You noticed that?”

“I noticed you. The way you reacted when she brought it up.”

She sits up, pulling her knees to her chest, makingherself small. I resist the sudden urge to pull her against me.

“My stepfather sold it,” she says flatly. “It wasn’t just a painting. It was my future he sold, my grandmother’s memory. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

I wait, giving her space to continue.

“The portrait was... everything. My grandmother taught me to paint. She was the only one who believed in me. After she died, I painted her portrait. It was the best work I’d ever done.”

Her voice breaks, and I find myself moving closer.

“There was this scholarship competition. Full ride to Parsons. The portrait was going to be my submission. I know I would have won. It was that good.”

I think of Ava’s talent, the raw emotion she captures on canvas, and I believe her.

“Three weeks before the submission deadline, he sold it. Just... took it from my room when I was at school and sold it.”

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“It wasn’t the first time. He’d been sabotaging me for years. Locking up my art supplies. Scheduling family obligations during art classes. Telling me I had no talent. But this...” Her hands clench into fists. “This was calculated. He waited until I had poured everything into that painting, until the deadline was close enough that I couldn’t create something new in time to apply again. Then he took it.”

Rage builds in my chest, hot and familiar. “And the money?”

“He kept every penny. Used it for a fishing boat.” She laughs bitterly. “Meanwhile, I had to take out loans. Work three jobs through college. Delay starting at Parsonsfor years.”

“That’s why you were so defensive about the studio,” I realize aloud. “When I questioned your financial decision.”

She nods. “Financial security isn’t just having money in the bank. It’s having control over what matters to you.” Her eyes finally meet mine. “He took that from me. My work, my choices, my future.”

The parallels hit me hard. Celeste, smiling as she drained my accounts. The calculated way she’d studied me, learning exactly where to strike. The cold realization that I’d been played, that my judgment had been so completely compromised.

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