My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

1. Ava

1

Ava

I arrive at Wess Gallery an hour before the exhibition officially opens, hoping the empty space might calm my jittery nerves. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

“This is fine,” I whisper to myself, straightening the collar of my one semi-professional black dress. “Totally fine.”

It’s not fine. It’s my first legitimate art showing in a respected SoHo gallery. I’m sweating so much the gallery might need to invest in a ‘Slippery When Wet’ sign just for me. Four long years at Parsons, countless ramen-fueled nights hunched over canvases until my back screamed for mercy. Now, everything hinges on the next three hours. No pressure is an understatement.

I scan the gallery. The staff is bustling around the main area, setting up champagne stations. Except— wait. Of course the room where my paintings are hanging has zero champagne. Great. Everyone knows sober people don’t buy art. I’m pretty sure that’s the first rule in the “How to Run a Successful Gallery” handbook, right between “pretentious lighting is essential” and “always act like you understand what the artist meant.”

I spot a tall, well-built man in dark clothing standing near the entrance, his back to me. His posture screams “supervisor," you know, the whole alert, observant, slightly detached from the social space around him thing. Perfect. Someone who can handle the champagne situation before the VIPs arrive.

Feeling purposeful, I march over and poke him gently in the shoulder.

“Pardon me,” I say politely. “You guys missed the champagne trays in the second room. Any way you could—”

Then he turns around.

Oh.

Oh, shit .

I freeze. This dude is no staffer. Hell no. Not unless caterers suddenly started modeling bespoke charcoal suits and jawlines sharp enough to cut granite. My stomach backflips because he’s ridiculously, unfairly attractive. Ridiculous being the keyword.

Just then, his cologne hits me like a velvet glove wrapped in barbed wire. Jesus. Bright, blood-orange zest slices, sharp enough to make my lungs hitch. Beneath it simmers something darker: aged cognac amber, the bite of black vetiver, and... smoke. Not cigarette ash. Woodsmoke. Like he bathed in a forest fire and then rolled in thousand-dollar bills.

He raises an amused eyebrow at me. No words, just this quirky half-smile that makes me want the floor to kindly open up and swallow me whole.

And then, without answering, he just walks away.

I stand frozen, confused. What just happened ?

Before I can run away and join the circus, Dean Wess swoops in from the back room, arms thrown wide in his signature theatrical greeting.

“Ava, darling! You’re deliciously early. Come, come, let’s make sure your corner is absolutely—” He stops mid-sentence, his eyes tracking the departing figure of the man I just spoke to. His expression shifts from exuberance to horror in a millisecond. “Please tell me you weren’t just speaking to Gideon King.”

The blood drains from my face so fast I’m surprised I remain standing. “That was—”

“The most influential art collector in Manhattan, yes.” Dean runs a hand through his styled hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement. “The man who could single-handedly launch your career.”

Kill me.

“What did you say to him?” Dean looks like he might need smelling salts.

Don’t throw up. Breathe. Inhale confidence, exhale shame.

“I might have... asked him to make sure the secondary room has champagne trays,” I admit, feeling my face grow super hot. It’s the first stage of what my best friend Lucy likes to call my “spontaneous lobster impersonation.” Once the blushing starts, it only gets worse, feeding on itself until I’m practically steaming from embarrassment. It’s a condition that can only be cured by immediately leaving the country and changing my identity.

Dean takes a deep breath, his flair for drama reasserting itself. “Regroup! Smile! Pretend you meant it as ironic social commentary!” He straightens his colorful pocket square. “I need to make sure everything is perfect before the rest of the guests arrive. Just try to relax, Ava. Art is eternal, humiliation temporary.”

The next half hour flashes by so quickly it’s like my anxiety accidentally fast-forwards reality. More waitstaff in crisp black uniforms materialize, their trays laden with tiny, pretentious food items, and suddenly the empty gallery transforms into a buzzing ecosystem of art-world socialites. I hover awkwardly near my paintings, trying to look like I belong.

Thank heavens Lucy materializes beside me, calm and collected, looking more put-together than I ever could. She hands me champagne, glancing at me sympathetically as I gulp it down like liquid Xanax.

“Thank god you’re here.” I pull her into a quick hug. “I’m drowning in anxiety and Chanel No. 5.”

Lucy laughs, her honey-blonde waves bouncing. “You’re doing fine. Dean looks thrilled, and I’ve already overheard two conversations about ‘the promising new artist.’ That’s you, by the way.”

I take another gulp of champagne. "Are you sure they weren’t saying ‘the sweaty mess in the corner?’”

“Positive.” She scans the gallery. “So, have you spotted him yet?”

“Who?”

“Gideon King, obviously.” She lowers her voice.

My stomach does an uncomfortable flip. “I may have... um... already had an... encounter with him.”

“Already? When?”

“I mistook him for catering staff and asked him to set out some champagne,” I mutter through barely moving lips.

Her eyes widen comically. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

To Lucy’s credit, she stifles her laugh. “Well, at least you made an impression. That man has probably heard every form of bootlickery in existence. No one’s ever mistaken him for the help. ”

“Fantastic. I’ve pioneered a new form of career suicide.”

“Or a new form of standing out.” She loops her arm through mine. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my father’s gallery contact. He’s loaded and loves supporting ‘undiscovered talent.’”

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and rehearsed explanations of my artistic process. I find myself gradually relaxing as people seem genuinely interested in my work. Professor Marshall from Parsons stops by briefly, giving my shoulder a supportive squeeze and offering encouraging words.

Several times I notice Gideon King moving through the crowd with easy confidence. He speaks to few people, instead studying the artwork with intense focus. Occasionally, our eyes meet across the room, and I quickly look away, my cheeks warming traitorously each time.

Near the end of that hour, while I’m giving an explanation of my techniques to a couple, I find myself almost back to normal, relaxed enough that my passion for the work overshadows nearly all the anxiety I felt earlier.

“The blend of structured elements against the more chaotic strokes represents the tension in urban settings,” I explain, gesturing with my champagne glass (when did I pick up another one?). “It’s about finding beauty in—”

I suddenly smell that characteristic citrus, amber and woodsmoke cologne and know Gideon is behind me. Like, directly behind me.

And that’s when disaster strikes.

My animated champagne glass, held aloft to illustrate some obscure artistic principle, catches on the pendant light above us. The glass tilts, and I pivot in an effort to stop it.

No no no no!

Time seems to slow as golden liquid arcs gracefully through the air, powered by my unfortunate combination of artistic passion and zero spatial awareness.

Noooooo...

It’s a horrifying parabola that ends directly on Gideon King’s immaculate charcoal suit.

The champagne splashes across his chest and stomach, instantly creating a dark stain that spreads like a silent scream across the expensive fabric.

The gallery around us falls silent. I can practically hear the collective intake of breath from nearby onlookers.

“Oh my god,” I squeak, mortification burning through me like wildfire. “I’m so— I can’t believe— let me—”

I grab cocktail napkins from a nearby table with my free hand and begin frantically dabbing at his chest, which only seems to make the stain worse. My face is burning so intensely I can feel sweat beading along my hairline. This isn’t just embarrassment; this is career euthanasia.

“Ms. Redwood.” His voice is deep and steady.

I freeze mid-dab. He knows my name?

Wait.

Name tag, genius.

I continue dabbing, unable to look up, mumbling apologies that blend together into an incomprehensible stream of self-flagellation.

“Ms. Redwood,” he repeats, more firmly this time.

A strong hand wraps around my wrist. The touch is firm but not painful, commanding my attention. I finally force myself to look up, and meet those storm-gray eyes.

What I see is a surprise. There’s no anger. Instead, his eyes crinkle slightly and the ghost of a smile plays at his lips.

Then, unbelievably, he chuckles. A rich, entirely unexpected sound.

“You certainly make an impression, Ms. Redwood,” he says, still holding my wrist. His thumb rests against my pulse, which is currently doing its best impression of a hummingbird.

The couple I was entertaining exchange uncomfortable glances. “Perhaps we could continue our discussion another time,” the husband says to the wife, who looks like she might faint. The pair melt into the crowd.

“I am so so sorry.” My voice sounds strange in my ears... tight and unnaturally high, like I’m auditioning for a role as a nervous chipmunk. “I can’t believe... I mean, I never... your suit...”

He releases my wrist slowly, almost reluctantly. “It’s just a suit. It can be replaced.” His eyes move past me to my painting. “Your work, however, cannot.”

Wait. Is he... complimenting me? After I’ve essentially assaulted him twice in one evening?

My brain frantically attempts to compute this information. It fails spectacularly, like an old iPhone struggling to run the latest gaming app. And then I have a horrifying thought... what if he meant...

Oh my god, did I splash champagne on my painting, too?

My head shoots to the canvas, and I’m relieved when I see it escaped unscathed. The relief doesn’t last long, however, when I remember where I am and who’s standing next to me.

He steps closer to the painting, ignoring the wet stain on his suit. “Your brushwork here,” he points to a particular section, “shows remarkable confidence. No hesitation.”

I stare at the spot he’s indicating, wondering if we’re looking at the same painting. That section was a complete accident. My elbow knocked over a cup of coffee, and I frantically incorporated the spill into the piece. The story of my life: turning disasters into art, then turning art showcases back into disasters. A perfect, humiliating circle.

“Uh, yeah," I mumble, eyes fixed firmly on his Italian leather shoes. “It’s... good brushwork.”

The heat from my face has now spread to my neck and chest, creating what I’m sure is a lovely mottled effect that pairs beautifully with the growing sweat stains under my arms.

“Tell me about your inspiration for this piece,” he says, gesturing toward the canvas with one broad palm.

I look up but don’t meet his eyes. “It’s, um...” I swallow hard, my tongue suddenly too large for my mouth. “About urban fragmentation?” It comes out as a question rather than a statement.

“And these red elements here?” He points to a series of jagged crimson lines cutting through the composition.

“Emotional disruption,” I blurt, then immediately wish I could snatch the words back. Could I sound any more like a first-year art student cobbling together pretentious buzzwords?

I chance a glance around the gallery. Several people are watching our interaction with poorly disguised interest. Some even point at me.

Probably talking about how red my face is.

Dean Wess hovers nervously nearby, looking like he’s contemplating diving between us.

Gideon either doesn’t notice the attention or doesn’t care. “The contrast between structure and chaos is compelling. You’ve captured something real here.”

Convinced he’s either mocking me or suffering from temporary insanity brought on by champagne fumes, I manage a weak nod and shift from one foot to the other.

Is it too late to fake a medical emergency?

Spontaneous combustion from embarrassment might not even be a lie at this point.

“Your use of negative space here,” he gesturing to another section, “suggests absence. Very deliberate.”

“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.