Page 51 of Billion Dollar Vow

“So before we head off, I was thinking we could go check out a gallery here in the hotel?”

“Planning to buy something?” I ask, putting the cup in the sink and keeping my gaze firmly on my task to avoid looking at his naked chest.

“Maybe, if I see something I like.”

His morning voice is a little huskier. I can feel it on my skin. I make the mistake of looking at him.God, his abs. You could grate a cheese block on them. But I bring my focus back to his words, wondering what it’s like having people buying your pieces as they walk into a gallery. It would be a surreal moment.

“I’ll shower and pack up while we wait for breakfast.” I walk out of the kitchen, needing to get some distance between us. My heart is beating too fast, and I’m not sure if it’s from attraction or panic. Either way, being alone with a half-naked Oliver feels like playing with fire. I need a moment to remember this isn’t real; that I’m not supposed to notice how his eyes follow me or how easily he lifted me off that counter.

I shower, pack my bag, and then hear a knock at the door. Room service is here.

When Oliver opens the door, I barely contain my excitement at the sight of the silver trays being wheeled in. The server arranges everything on the dining table with an effort that makes me feel like royalty.

“This is amazing,” I whisper after the server leaves.

Oliver looks genuinely pleased by my reaction. “Dig in before it gets cold.”

We eat quickly, but I savor every bite.

“That was incredible,” I say as I finish the last strawberry. “Almost worth getting fake married for.”

Oliver laughs. “Just wait until you see the gallery. The Bellagio has one of the best collections in Vegas.”

Once we’ve checked out and our bags are stored with the concierge, we make our way toward the gallery. As we approach the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art, I notice how the entrance stands apart from the casino’s glitz. There’s an understated elegance to the façade, with clean lines and soft lighting. Oliver walks close beside me, not quite touching, but I can feel the warmth radiating from him.

When we reach a narrow corridor, his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me forward. The gentle pressure sends a shiver up my spine that I try desperately to ignore. Once we arrive inside, I’m struck by the calm and elegant atmosphere, with soft lighting and perfectly spaced displays. The marble floors and muted tones set a peaceful backdrop for the bold, detailed art on the walls.

“I wanted to show you this place,” Oliver says quietly. “There’s something special about how they organize each exhibition… They understand that art needs room to breathe, to speak to the viewer.”

I glance at him, surprised by the passion in his voice. “You really love this, don't you? It's not just business for you.”

“Never has been,” he admits with a small smile. “The business part came second. I fell in love with art long before I thought about selling it.”

Each piece feels intentional, telling a story or capturing a moment with raw energy. It’s so different from what I’m used to back home. Some pieces are bright and abstract, while others, dark and realistic, but they all seem to pull you into another world.

I stop in front of a painting. It’s of a woman standing alone in the middle of a crowded street, her face turned upward, though no one around her seems to notice. The colors are muted, mostly grays and blues, but there’s a light shining on her face.

I can’t look away. Something about her expression resonates deeply with me. I’ve spent so much of my life feeling invisible, yet still searching for my own light.

“This one speaks to you,” Oliver says softly.

I nod, not trusting my voice. How long have I been standing here?

When I finally tear my gaze away from the painting to look at him, he’s closer than I expected, his eyes warm with something I can’t name. “We should probably keep moving. There’s a lot more to see.”

We continue through the gallery, occasionally brushing against each other. I find myself both avoiding and seeking these accidental touches.

After we’ve seen everything, lingering longer than I expected, we make our way toward the exit.

“I’m surprised you didn’t buy anything,” I say as we step back into the hotel’s main corridor.

Oliver runs a hand through his hair, expression thoughtful. “There were a couple I liked, but I just… know when it’s right. It’s like a feeling. You look at a piece, and it moves you,” he replies.

Does my art do that to people? Does it make them feel something? I’d like to think my art brings happiness. My work is feminine, mostly flowers in watercolor, though I’ve done birds here and there. But flowers are what feel right to me.

“All set to go home?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I smile, though there’s a flutter of nervousness in my stomach. Going home means starting this marriage for real—no more hotel bubble, just the daily reality of pretending tobe Oliver’s wife. “You’ll have to show me this mansion I’ll be ‘enjoying’ now.”

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