Page 94 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

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Ava

Paint fumes fill my studio space in Gideon’s penthouse, that familiar cocktail of linseed oil and turpentine that smells like home. I’m working on a new canvas. It’s something abstract that’s been haunting me since the SEC investigation yesterday.

Because nothing helps one process feelings better than splattering red paint across a pristine white canvas, of course.

I still can’t shake the way Gideon looked at me in the car afterward. Like I’d caught him feeling something he didn’t want to admit. He’d defended me to federal investigators.Me, his fake wife. Lost his cool, apparently. It’s almost funny when you think about it.

I dab more crimson onto my palette, swirling it with a touch of burnt umber. The door to my studio is closed, my sanctuary within this ridiculous marble palace I now call home. My phone buzzes with a text from Lucy.

How’smarried life with Mr. Billionaire? Having sex yet? ;)

I snort and ignore it.If only she knew the half of it...

A voice in the hallway interrupts my thoughts. Male, hushed, urgent. It takes me a moment to place it. Gideon mentioned someone was coming by to review materials for tomorrow’s board meeting. What was his name again? Burt. Burt Lee. Yes. That’s it.

I hadn’t realized he was still here.

“The timeline needs adjustment,” I hear Burt say. “King’s distracted with this SEC investigation... yes, I’m at his penthouse now... no, he doesn’t suspect athing.”

Well that’s not suspicious at all. Maybe he’s planning a surprise party? In June? When Gideon’s birthday is in November?

I set down my brush and move closer to the door, careful not to make a sound. My heart pounds uncomfortably against my ribs.

“We need to proceed carefully,” Burt continues. “If King catches wind of this before we’re ready...” He lowers his voice further, forcing me to strain to hear. “I understand. I’ll have the information you need by Friday.”

The conversation ends, and I hear footsteps moving away. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my cheeks burning hot.

So that was weird, right? Not just me being paranoid? Because that sounded a lot like corporate espionage dinner theater.

I stay frozen for several minutes, debating what to do. I’m pretty sure Burt wasn’t expecting an audiencefor his little cloak-and-dagger phone performance. Certainly not Gideon, and definitely not the paint-splattered wife hiding in her studio like some accidental corporate spy. He must have thought I wasn’t home.

I could tell Gideon immediately, but what exactly would I say? That I eavesdropped on a vague conversation that sounded shady? He’d probably dismiss it, or worse, think I was imagining things.

Because nothing says “credible witness” like the art student who talks to her paintings and once mistook a billionaire for gallery staff.

After all, it’s completely possible that Burt knew I was in the studio and actuallywantedme to overhear. You know, to embarrass me in front of Gideon by throwing out baseless accusations.

I hear Gideon’s voice now, muffled through walls, followed by the distant sound of the front door closing. They must be finished with their meeting.

Twenty minutes later, I hear Gideon’s footsteps pass my studio door, followed by his voice speaking to someone on the phone as he moves toward his home office. The penthouse falls quiet again.

I chew my lower lip, weighing my options. If Burt really is up to something, Gideon needs to know. But I need proof first.

Detective Ava on the case. Nancy Drew but with paint-stained fingers and imposter syndrome. At your service.

I wash my hands, scrubbing aggressively at the paint under my fingernails. A plan forms in my mind. A stupid, reckless plan. But hey, that’s basically my unofficial brand at this point.

Last week, Gideon set me up with access to the company server. “You need tounderstand what you’re protecting,” he’d said during one of our financial education sessions. The irony doesn’t escape me now.

I move to the small desk in the corner of my studio where my company laptop sits. Logging in, I navigate to the communication archives. My pulse pounds in my ears, hands slightly trembling.

This is totally normal. Just a casual Wednesday afternoon of corporate espionage. Nothing to see here.

I search for Burt Lee’s communications, fumbling through menus until I find his email archives. Most seem legitimate. Routine business correspondence, meeting schedules, project updates. I almost convince myself I imagined the suspicion in his voice.

Then I see it. A separate folder labeled “BL Personal” that contains exchanges with an email address I don’t recognize: [email protected].

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