Page 116 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I quickly flip my sketchbook closed and reach for my phone, pretending to scroll through Instagram as the elevator doors slide open.

Gideon steps into the penthouse, loosening his tie with one hand while pulling his luggage with the other. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his usually perfect hair disheveled. He also looks unfairly good considering he’s been on a plane for fourteen hours.

“You’re still up,” he says, sounding genuinely surprised.

I shrug, aiming for casual indifference. “Justworking on some sketches.” I hold up my closed sketchbook as evidence. “How was Tokyo?”

“Successful.” He leaves his suitcase by the elevator and walks toward me, his movements slow but deliberate. “The Tanaka deal is finalized.”

“Good.” I nod, suddenly awkward. “That’s good.”

We stare at each other across the living room, the space between us charged with something I don’t want to name. It’s been three weeks. Just three weeks. People go that long without seeing their actual spouses all the time.

So why does it feel like it’s been months?

“I brought you something,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

“You didn’t have to do that.” The words come out automatically, a reflexive protection against expectation.

“I wanted to.” He turns back to his luggage, unzipping a side compartment and carefully removing something wrapped in protective material. “It’s not from Tokyo, actually. It arrived while I was away, but I had it delivered directly here rather than risk shipping damage.”

I stand up, curiosity overriding my attempt at nonchalance. “What is it?”

“Come see.” He carries the package to the dining table and starts carefully unwrapping it, layer after layer of protective padding.

I move closer, watching his hands work with meticulous precision. For a moment, I’m distracted by those hands, remembering how they felt on my skin the last time we were together. How they anchored me when everything else felt like it was spinning outof control.

Focus, Ava. He brought you a souvenir, not a marriage proposal.

But as the final layer of padding falls away, my breath catches in my throat. Familiar brushstrokes emerge, and I gasp. It’s a portrait I never thought I’d see again.

“Is that...?” I can’t even finish the question, my voice failing me.

Gideon turns to look at me, his expression soft in a way that makes my chest ache. “Your grandmother’s portrait. The one your stepfather sold.”

My legs go weak and I grab the edge of the table for support. “How did you...? Where did you...?”

“I had a talk with your mother after she mentioned the painting. She gave me some potential leads that panned out surprisingly well. Jonas was the one who finally tracked it down.” He says it so casually, like tracking down a lost masterpiece is something people do between board meetings.

I stare at the canvas, unable to process what I’m seeing. The familiar face of my grandmother looks back at me, her eyes kind but mischievous, just as I remembered. The original. The brushstrokes that once flowed from my hands, capturing the woman who believed in me when no one else did. I realize now how flawed my later recreation was. I’d gotten so many details wrong. But this... this is perfect. Just like my grandmother was.

“It’s really mine?” I whisper, afraid to believe it’s real.

“It’s yours,” Gideon confirms. “Always should have been.”

I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the canvas, afraid to touch it in case it disappears. “I can’t believe you found it.”

“I have good people.” He smiles slightly. “And I can be very persistent when properly motivated.”

The portrait blurs as tears fill my eyes. This was a piece of my soul I thought was lost forever.

“Thank you,” I manage, the words woefully inadequate for what this means to me. “Gideon, I don’t know how to—”

He steps closer, his hand coming up to brush a tear from my cheek. “You don’t have to say anything.”

I look up at him, really look at him, and something shifts inside me. This isn’t something you do for a business arrangement. This isn’t something you do for someone you’re merelypretendingto care about.

Before I can overthink it, I close the distance between us and press my lips to his. For a split second, he’s still, surprised by my initiative. Then his arms wrap around me, pulling me against him like he’s been starving for this contact.

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