Page 4 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“I ran out of blue,” I blurt out.Oh god, why am I still talking?The most influential art collector in Manhattan is pretending to be interested in my work out of pity, and I’m confessing to running out of paint like some unprepared amateur.

To my surprise, one corner of his mouth lifts in what might almost be a genuine smile. “The best art often comes from limitations, Ms. Redwood.”

I make a sound that’s meant to be agreement but emerges as something between a squeak and a cough. My hands fidget with the edge of my dress, and I can feel a bead of sweat making its treacherous way down my spine.

After an excruciating silence that probably lasts three seconds but feels like three hours, he has pity on me. He glances down at his champagne-stained suit with what almost looks like amusement. “I should attend to this.”

And with that, he walks away.

I stare after him, unable to process what just happened, glad the torture is finally over.

I look around.

Was I just part of a hidden camera prank for some cringey YouTube channel?

Or maybe it was all an elaborate hallucination brought on by gallery lighting, anxiety, and too much champagne. One can always hope...

Lucy appears beside me almost instantly. “Did Gideon King just chat you up after you spilled champagne all over him?”

Dang. So much for the hallucination theory. “I wouldn’t quite call it chatting me up...”

“But you lived to tell the tale, and your artwork hasn’t been blacklisted from society. Sounds like success to me!”

I shake my head. “I’ve ruined a suit that probably costs more than my entire college education.In front of everybody.” I grab a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter and raise it. “Here’s to career suicide and public humiliation!”

As I down the champagne, I pray the night gets better.

2

Ava

The gallery empties like a beach at high tide, leaving scattered evidence of human occupation. We have our empty champagne flutes, our crumpled napkins, and of course the lingering scent of perfume.

I watch the last group of well-dressed patrons disappear through the front door, and then I slump against the nearest wall in exhaustion and relief.

Lucy appears from the back room, coat already draped over her arm. “You survived! And did pretty well, I might add.” She tugs at my elbow. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Ican’t. Not yet. I promised Dean I’d help tidy up a bit.” I glance around at the minor mess. “Besides, I need a few minutes of quiet to process... whatever tonight was.”

“That was your career happening,” Lucy says, grinning. “Seriously, Ava, you look exhausted. Go home, soak in a tub full of Epsom salts.”

“I’m fine." I wave a dismissive hand.

She gives me her signature ‘I-see-through-your-bullshit-but-love-you-anyway’ look and, with a final squeeze of my arm, heads out.

So there I am, mostly alone in the now-dimly lit gallery

. My paintings, bathed in the soft glow of the remaining spotlights, stare back at me with a mixture of pity and judgment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter to the closest canvas. “It wasn’tmyfault they decided to hang a pendant light directly above me.”

A deep laugh comes from behind me. My entire body goes rigid like I’ve been plugged into a high-voltage outlet.

Oh, sweet mother of all that is holy, please don’t let that be...

Slowly, I turn.

And there he is.

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