Page 125 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

She whirls around, paintbrush brandished like a weapon, paint splattering across the concrete floor. Her eyes widen.

“Jesus, Gideon. You scared the shit out of me.” Her chest rises and falls rapidly, the thin fabric of her tank top doing little to conceal the effect of the studio’s chill.God, those nipples...“How did you get in here?”

“The studio door was unlocked.” I step further into the space. “You should be more careful.”

“Diana and Michael are standing watch downstairs...” she says.

“So? Security personnel can still be ambushed. Especially at this hour.”

“Why are you here?” She sets down her brush, wiping her hands on a rag that appears to have more paint than fabric at this point.

“You didn’t come home.”

The words hang between us. Home. Such a simple word, loaded with implications neither of us is ready to address.

“I lost track of time,” she says, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, leaving a smudge of blue on her cheek. “Sorry. I should’ve texted.”

I move closer, taking in the space she’s created. The warehouse studio has transformed since I first saw it. Large canvases lean against walls, some complete, others in various stages of creation. In the corner, a small but comfortable-looking sofa sits beside a mini-fridge, electric kettle, and hot plate. It’s organized chaos, every square inch imbued with her essence.

“This is quite the operation,” I say, circling a freestanding metal shelving unit full of jars, tubes,and brushes.

“It’s not extravagant like the penthouse, but it works for me.” There’s a defensiveness in her tone that makes me pause.

“I didn’t mean it as criticism.” I stop in front of the canvas she was working on. “Is this new?”

The painting is unlike anything I’ve seen from her before. Massive, at least eight feet tall, with layers of color building into something both chaotic and controlled. At its center, a form that might be human emerges from what could be flames or wings or both.

She hesitates, then nods. “Started it tonight.”

“After Blackwell confronted you.”

Her shoulders tense. “I needed to process.”

I understand this need to channel emotional turmoil into something productive. For me, it’s always been work, building my empire higher as if the altitude might somehow separate me from my demons. For Ava, it’s this. Raw emotion transformed into something beautiful and lasting.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing to a stool nearby.

She looks genuinely surprised. “You want to watch me paint?”

“If you’ll allow it.”

Ava studies me. I keep my expression neutral, though my heart rate has inexplicably accelerated.

“No one watches me work,” she says finally. “Not even Lucy. You know that.”

“I understand.” I turn to leave, an unfamiliar disappointment washing over me.

“Wait.” Her voice stops me. “You can stay. Just... don’t talk too much. And don’t expect me to explain what I’m doing.”

I nod, taking a seat on the stool, positioning it where I can see both her and the canvas. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She returns to her work, hesitant at first, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting me to interrupt or criticize. When I remain silent, she gradually loses herself in the process again.

My head of security sends a message, asking if everything is all right.

All good,I text back.Settle in for the long haul.

Minutes stretch into an hour as I watch her transform the canvas, adding layers, scraping away others, her entire body engaged in the creation.

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