Page 139 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“But what’s particularly relevant to today’s discussion,” she continues, reaching the finalslide, “is this comparison between the proposed Riverside Corridor development under our management versus the speculative projections if control were to shift to Blackwell Holdings.”

The numbers are devastating to Blackwell’s position. Even his staunchest supporters on the board can’t ignore the fifteen-point differential in projected returns.

“I may be an artist, Mr. Blackwell,” Ava concludes, “but I understand value. And I recognize a predatory acquisition attempt disguised as concern for corporate stability.” She sits down with the same quiet grace she showed standing up.

The boardroom falls into stunned silence before an unexpected ally speaks up.

“I move we dismiss the deadlock provision motion as without merit,” says Margaret Chen, one of our most conservative board members who I expected to vote with Blackwell. “The trust arrangement appears to be functioning precisely as intended.”

I watch Blackwell’s face contort with barely concealed rage as the motion is seconded and rapidly passed with only three dissenting votes. His grand play has just imploded spectacularly.

“This meeting is adjourned,” I announce, trying to keep the triumph from my voice. “Thank you for your time.”

As the room clears, I remain seated, ostensibly reviewing notes but actually trying to process what just happened. Ava gathers her materials quietly beside me. I find myself swelling with pride just looking at her.

“That analysis,” I finally say when we’re alone. “You put that together in the mornings? On your laptop?”

She shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. “I’ve been paying attention. Lucy helped with some of the projections. She knows her way around commercial real estate numbers.”

“You just saved my company.” The words come out rougher than intended.

“Ourcompany,” she corrects. “For the next twenty-three days, anyway.”

The reminder of our contract’s expiration hits like a punch to the gut. Twenty-three days. Already?

“Let’s celebrate properly,” I say, pushing away the thought. “Dinner at Daniel. We’ve earned it.”

Two hours later, we’re seated at the best table in Daniel, champagne flowing as New York glitters beyond the windows. Ava looks radiant in her favorite blue dress she changed into, the formality of the boardroom shed along with her suit.

“To strategic brilliance,” I toast, clinking my glass against hers.

“To appearances versus reality,” she counters with a knowing look.

Her words strike closer to home than she realizes. The appearance: a business arrangement coming to its logical conclusion. The reality: I’m falling in love with my wife.

The realization doesn’t shock me as much as it should. It’s been building for weeks, maybe months. In the studio watching her paint. In bed, her body curved perfectly against mine. In quiet moments when she makes me laugh despite myself.

“Gideon? You went somewhere just now.”

I shake my head, returning to the moment. “Just thinking about how fucking incredible you were today. You blindsided everyone, including me.”

“I wanted to contribute somethingreal,” she says softly. “Not just be a signature on legal documents. I’m surprised no one on the board told you about the comparative analysis I emailed out.”

“I suppose they assumed I already knew about it,” I counter. “Youaremy wife, after all. To them, anyway.” I shake my head. “You’ve contributed more than you know.” My hand reaches for hers across the table. “When this is over...”

Her eyes find mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths.

And I can’t do it. I can’t tell her what I want to say.

Fuck me.

She deserves better than a damaged man with trust issues and a target on his back. She deserves the gallery of her dreams, the artistic freedom she’s fought for, not the complicated, dangerous life that comes with being genuinely attached to me.

It’s better this way.

“When this is over,” I continue, pulling my hand back, “you’re going to make an incredible success of your gallery. The art world won’t know what hit it.”

Something dims in her expression, but she smiles anyway. “At least something good came from our arrangement.”

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