Page 58 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Originally I’d set up shop in the corner of the living room, but I’d felt a little exposed there. I’d catch Gideon watching me paint at the most random times. Nothing ruins brush control like knowing a billionaire is analyzing your every stroke. Probably mentally calculating the ROI of my “hobby.” Eitherway, I decided it would be best if I moved my mini studio to one of the rooms.

Lucy examines an in-progress painting, her head tilted. “This is new. Your work feels different.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. “Just experimenting.”

She studies me instead of the canvas. “It feels more emotionally honest. Less controlled.”

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t reveal too much, I hear the distinctive sound of Gideon’s footsteps approaching. My pulse immediately quickens.

Why does my body always react like this? It’s like my heart and my brain are operating on completely different frequencies.

“Lucy,” Gideon says, entering the room with that effortless authority that seems to shrink any space he occupies. “Good to see you again.” He’s wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than all the art supplies I own, his dark hair perfectly styled.

Lucy rises from examining my canvas, smoothing her designer skirt. “Gideon. Still keeping my best friend in the lap of luxury, I see.”

There’s something in her tone, a subtle edge that wasn’t there at the wedding. Three weeks of reflection have clearly given Lucy time to develop some opinions about our whirlwind marriage.

Great. The honeymoon phase of Lucy approving my questionable life choices has officially ended.

It doesn’t help that we’ve shared little more than a few text messages the past few weeks. Nothing says “I value our decade-long friendship” like responding to her detailed life updates with the occasional “busy, talk soon!” and radio silence. Best Friend of the Year Award? Not even in the running. I’mpractically a stranger with an inexplicable new zip code and husband to match.

“We try to keep things comfortable,” Gideon responds with diplomatic precision. His hand finds the small of my back as he joins us, and I hate how my body instantly registers the warmth of his palm through my thin t-shirt.

“Speaking of comfortable,” Lucy says, crossing her arms, “I have about a thousand questions about this marriage of yours.”

I feel my face heating up.Here we go. The Lucy Inquisition begins.

Gideon’s mouth curves into that half-smile that makes my stomach flutter embarrassingly. “I’m sure you do. Shall we move this to the living room? I’ve asked Marianne to prepare lunch.”

Marianne. Right. The personal chef is another surreal aspect of this new life I’m still adjusting to. A life where meals appear without being ordered and security guards follow me to buy coffee.

We migrate to the living room just as Marianne emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of what appears to be some kind of gourmet flatbread situation that smells divine enough to make my stomach audibly protest its emptiness.

“Your antipasto flatbreads, Mr. King,” she announces with her subtle French accent. “And the lobster risotto will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Lobster risotto. For lunch. On a Tuesday.

“It looks amazing, Marianne,” I say, my voice pitched slightly higher than normal. “Thank you.”

She sets down elegant plates and napkins with practiced efficiency before disappearing back to the kitchen, though the open floor plan means she’s stillwithin earshot. Perfect. An audience for the Lucy Inquisition.

Gideon sits beside me on the sofa, his arm casually draped behind my shoulders in a practiced display of affection. The weight of it, the warmth radiating from his body, feels simultaneously comforting and dangerous. I reach for a flatbread to give my nervous hands something to do.

“So,” Lucy begins, perching on the edge of the armchair across from us, barely glancing at the food, “at the wedding I was too busy playing supportive best friend to ask the hard questions. But now I want details. This whole gallery-meeting-to-marriage timeline feels suspiciously compressed.”

I nearly choke on my flatbread. From the kitchen, I hear the rhythmic sound of Marianne’s knife against a cutting board, slicing through what I hope isn’t my chances of maintaining this charade.

“It’s not that complicated,” I say, trying to sound normal while mentally screaming at Lucy to lower her voice. “We met at the gallery show—”

“Where she mistook me for staff,” Gideon interjects smoothly, reaching for his own flatbread with casual confidence. “It was refreshing to be seen as a normal person rather than Gideon King.”

Lucy’s eyes narrow slightly as she finally picks up a piece of flatbread. “And then you came back later pretending to be someone else? That part still sounds fishy to me.”

I hear the water running in the kitchen sink, Marianne humming softly to herself. Is she actually humming or is that her way of politely signaling she’s not listening? My neck feels hot enough to cook the lobster for the risotto.

“Not pretending,” Gideon corrects,his thumb absently stroking my shoulder in a way that sends inconvenient tingles down my spine. “John is my middle name. I just... omitted certain details.”

Like the fact that you’re worth billions and planned to never see me again after our night together. Minor details, really.

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