Page 129 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“Still.” She sighs. “We come from different worlds.”

“Maybe,” I concede, stroking her hair. “But right now, we’re in the same one.”

She doesn’t respond, but I feel her relax against me, her breathing slowing as exhaustion claims her. I should leave, return to the penthouse, maintain some semblance of the boundaries we’ve established. Instead, I hold her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the steady beat of her heart against mine.

I’ve never felt this connected to another person in my life. The realization both exhilarates and terrifies me. Exhilarates because I never knew such connection was possible. Terrifies because in six weeks, according to the contract we both signed, it ends.

Unless I find a way to change the terms of our arrangement.

My mind races with possibilities as I watch her sleep, her face peaceful in a way it rarely is when she’s awake. I’ve built an empire through strategic decision-making and calculated risks. Surely I can find a solution to this.

Because lying here in her creative sanctuary, surrounded by expressions of her soul on canvas, I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I’m not ready to let Ava Redwood go.

42

Ava

Iwake to the feeling of Gideon’s arm draped heavily across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. Morning sunlight filters through the studio’s grimy windows, casting patterns across the floor.

Last night was different. Not just the sex, though that was spectacular as always, but the way he watched me paint. The vulnerability of it. The way he looked at me afterward, like he was seeing something beyond our contract.

Don’t read too much into it, Ava.

I carefully extract myself from his embrace, his face softening in sleep in a way it never does when he’s awake. Without his intensity, he looks younger. More vulnerable.

No getting attached. No feelings. Remember the clause.

“Where are you going?” His voice, rough with sleep, startles me as I pull on my paint-stained sweatpants.

“Back to painting,” I say, avoiding his eyes.

He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist,muscles shifting under tanned skin. The sight makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. The food kind, I mean.

“I’ll probably sleep here tonight,” I continue. “I really want to get some work done. Don’t wait up for me.”

He watches me as I gather my things, his gaze heavy on my skin.

“Last night—” he begins.

“Was great,” I interrupt, my heart racing. “Really great stress relief. Thanks for that. Have a good day at work.”

I rush out of the room and I’m painting within five minutes. Gideon pauses on the way out, and opens his mouth as if he wants to tell me something, but then he leaves without a word. Let alone a hug or a kiss on the cheek.

I let you a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I’m a little disappointed when he doesn’t show up again that night, nor the night after. But it helps me understand that yes, the sex was just release. Nothing has changed between us. And probably nothing ever will.

Three days later I finally emerge from my creative cave. Gideon has been suspiciously hands-off the whole time, just checking in with brief texts that I’ve answered with equally brief reassurances.

“Ms. Redwood, you’re finally ready to head back to the penthouse?” Michael’s voice pulls me from my thoughts as he stands by the studio door, pretending he hasn’t noticed I’ve been wearing the same paint-splattered sweatpants for three days straight. He and Diana have been taking turns sleeping in their piano-black SUV outside while the other guards the entrance.

“Yeah, I’m ready...”

Michael nods. “The SUV is waiting. I’ll inform Mr. King you’re on your way.”

Great. Now he’ll know exactly when to conveniently have an urgent business call.

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