Page 115 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“You know that painting you were looking for?” he says.

My heart rate picks up instantly. “Yes.”

“Found it,” he replies simply. “You want me to buy it?”

“Begin the acquisition process immediately,” I tell him, turning away from the others in the room so they can’t see my expression. “And Jonas?”

“Yes, Gideon?”

“Thank you,” I say, surprising myself with theemotion in my voice. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

There’s a pause on the line. “I think I do, actually.”

Fuck. Am I that transparent now?

On the plane, I find myself staring out the jet window, remembering our daily calls, her voice guiding me through cultural nuances, her insights helping secure the deal worth millions. I think about her easy smile during our video calls, the way she laughs at my corporate jargon, the slight curve of her lips when I say something she finds unexpectedly funny. How she’s always mocking rich people, when she’s essentially one herself now.

For another two months, anyway.

Two months. Is that all the time we have left? When this arrangement started, it seemed like forever. An eternity of maintaining professional distance.

Now it feels like it’s not enough. Like I’m running out of time.

I check my watch. Twelve more hours until landing. Twelve hours and one fuel stop to prepare myself to see her again, to maintain the façade that nothing has changed.

But somethinghaschanged.

I’ve changed.

And I don’t know how the hell to deal with that.

38

Ava

The clock on my phone reads 11:45 PM. Gideon’s flight landed forty-five minutes ago, which means he’ll be walking through that door any minute.

Not that I’m counting or anything.

I flip to another page in my sketchbook, pretending I’m just up late working on concepts rather than waiting for my fake husband to return from his business trip like some 1950s housewife. The pencil scratches against the paper as I shade the jawline of the figure that’s become a constant in my work lately.

Way to be subtle, Ava. Nothing says “I’m totally not falling for him” like obsessively drawing his face every night he’s been gone.

I should be in bed. That’s what I texted him when he messaged that his car was leaving the airport: “Great. I’ll probably be asleep. See you tomorrow.”

Yet another lie among the many I’ve told since this whole arrangement began. Though most of them have been to myself.

The truth is I haven’t slept well since he left. During the day, I’ve been spending my time at my Brooklyn studio warehouse, returning at night to sleep here. However, in the past week I’d started spending nights at the warehouse as well... the penthouse just feels too big, too quiet without him working late in his office or making coffee in the kitchen at ungodly hours. I’ve gotten used to his presence, the way his footsteps sound on the hardwood floors, the scent of his cologne lingering in hallways.

It’s just the routine you’re missing. Not him specifically. Just the routine.

So anyway, this will be the first day in a week since I’ve actually slept at the penthouse.

I add another layer of shadow to the drawing, darkening the eyes that stare back at me from the page. I’ve captured the intensity well, but something’s missing. The slight softness that appears around the edges when Gideon thinks no one is looking.

The elevator chimes and my heart leaps into my throat.

Act natural. Like you’re not pathetically waiting up for him.

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