7. Ava
7
Ava
T he smell of turpentine and acrylic paint clings to my clothes as I squint at the canvas. The studio lights at Parsons are brutal. They show every flaw, every hesitation in my brushstrokes. And don’t even get me started on how human skin looks under these lights. Mine specifically. I caught my reflection in the window earlier and let’s just say, the results weren’t pretty. Shiny forehead, blotchy cheeks, and under-eye circles deep enough to make a raccoon envious.
I sigh, and reverently grab my last tube of cadmium red and squeeze gently, coaxing out a thin ribbon of paint onto my palette. At forty-two dollars a tube, this stuff might as well be liquid gold. I make a mental note to water it down just enough to stretch it out without compromising the intensity.
The starving artist cliché is alive and well in my life. Maybe I should start a TikTok: “Watch me make masterpieces while surviving on mac ‘n’ cheese and panic-induced bursts of inspiration. AvasFantasticArt - where existential crises meet entertainment! ”
My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder. Faculty critique in two hours. I’ve been preparing for this one for weeks.
I wipe my hands on my already paint-splattered jeans and try not to think about last Friday night. But just like the persistent red paint under my fingernails, thoughts of Gideon King refuse to be scrubbed away.
Stop it, Ava. Focus on the actual things that matter, not the six-foot-ten billionaire who made it very clear you were a one-time-only item.
Waking up in his penthouse after a one night stand was one thing. But apparently the universe thought I needed an extra serving of humiliation, because then he bent me over his ridiculous glass desk for round two before having his driver shuttle me back to reality. Nothing says “you’re special” quite like being expedited out of a billionaire’s life faster than an Amazon same-day delivery.
I’d left with my pride in tatters but my resolve intact. Never again would I let myself be that vulnerable, that exposed.
I angrily dab more paint onto the canvas, focusing on the play of light across the abstract cityscape I’m creating. The buildings blend and blur under my brush, distorted by my emotions.
Three hours later, I’m standing in the small gallery space where our department has set up a student showcase. My three pieces hang on the far wall. They’re my studies for my final exhibition. Professor Marshall stands in front of them, rubbing his temples in contemplation.
“The tension between structure and emotion is powerful, Ava,” he says, gesturing to the largest canvas. “But I’d love to see you push the contrast further. Maybe try gold leaf in some sections? To create a more dramatic interplay between light and shadow?”
I nod enthusiastically while mentally calculating the cost of gold leaf.
Sure, I’ll just sell a kidney. They come in pairs for a reason, right?
“I’ve been experimenting with metallics,” I say instead. “I’ll definitely explore that direction.”
He smiles and moves on to critique Lucy’s photography series. I exhale slowly, fighting the urge to check my bank balance right there in the gallery. Between rent, supplies, and my monthly student loan payment— thanks, Stepdad from Hell —I’m perpetually dancing on the edge of financial disaster.
Lucy sidles up to me after her critique, her honey-blonde hair bouncing as she bumps my shoulder with hers.
“You good? You’ve been weird all week,” she says, studying my face with the same intensity she uses when framing a photograph.
“I’m fine. Just stressed about graduation,” I lie. I haven’t told her about Gideon. How could I? ‘Hey, remember that billionaire from Friday night, well I slept with him and then he kicked me to the curb’ isn’t exactly casual conversation material. I’d rather just forget that the whole thing ever happened.
Lucy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it. “Well, your work is amazing. You know what would make it even better? If you actually ate something occasionally. Coffee is not a food group.”
I’m about to respond with my standard “starving is part of my artistic process” joke when I feel it. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. I scan the small crowd of students and faculty, and my heart stops.
No. No way. Not possible.
But it is. Standing at the back of the gallery, tall and imposing in a suit that probably costs more than my entire education, is Gideon King. Our eyes lock across the room, and I swear the temperature jumps ten degrees.
Why is he here? To torture me again? His “beautiful mistake”?
“Ava? Hello? You look like you just saw a ghost,” Lucy waves a hand in front of my face.
“Worse,” I mutter. “I just saw a man who made it very clear he never wanted to see me again.”
Lucy’s eyes widen as she follows my gaze. “Wait, is that—”
“Don’t look!” I hiss, grabbing her arm. “Yes, it’s him. I have no idea why he’s here.”
“The billionaire art collector? The one who bought the Matisse last year? And what do you mean ‘again’?”
But I can’t answer because Gideon is making his way toward us, moving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who’s never had to doubt their place in the world. Unlike me. Students part for him like he’s Moses and they’re the Red Sea.
Because of course he is and of course they are.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin, acutely aware of my paint-stained fingers and the messy bun that’s been falling apart all day. He looks immaculate in that dark suit and crisp white shirt. As he gets closer, I smell that characteristic cologne, all citrus and woodsmoke, and it triggers a memory of his rock hard abs. Not to mention his rock hard—
Oh god. Not now!
I swallow, feeling my face turn a bright red.
Stay calm. Act normal. Whatever normal is when facing the man who’s seen you naked and then dismissed you from his life like yesterday’s stock report. God, why does he have to look so gorgeous all the time?? It’s so unfair.
“Ms. Redwood,” he says, his voice as smooth as I remember. “Your work continues to impress.”
Behind him stand two burly men in pristine suits. I recognize them from the gallery and lounge. Though I didn’t know it then, they’re part of his security detail, of course.
“Mr. King,” I reply, proud that my voice doesn’t shake. I do my best to ignore the heat in my cheeks. “I didn’t expect to see you ever... to see you here. This is just a student showcase.”
“I make it a point to keep an eye on emerging talent.” His gray eyes flick to Lucy, who’s staring at him with undisguised excitement.
“Oh! This is Lucy Hammond, my friend and fellow student,” I say, barely remembering my manners. “Lucy, this is Gideon King.”
Why does my face have to do this to me? God I hope Lucy doesn’t notice.
Lucy extends her hand enthusiastically. I can tell she’s on the verge of blurting out ‘oh I know very well who he is.’ Instead she comes out with: “Nice to meet you, Mr. King. I’ve heard a lot about your collection.”
But nothing about how he collects and discards women.
“Ms. Hammond,” he acknowledges with a slight nod. “Would you excuse us? I’d like to speak with Ms. Redwood privately about a business proposition.”
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.
A business proposition? What does that even mean?
Lucy gives me a questioning look. I nod slightly, and she squeezes my arm before walking away, but not without mouthing “call me later” behind Gideon’s back. She walks with a skip, as if meeting Gideon was the highlight of her day.
If only she knew...
“There’s a café around the corner,” he suggests. “We can talk there.”
I walk alongside him, the humiliating heat in my face slowly subsiding like a fever breaking. But in its place comes something far more interesting. A delicious, righteous anger that almost makes me smile.
Well, well, well. Mr. King of the One-Night Stand has a “business proposition.” How absolutely fascinating. Let me guess, he needs someone to paint his ceiling while lying naked underneath them? We’ll see about that.
My heartbeat steadies with each step, embarrassment giving way to a steely resolve I didn’t know I had in me. I’m actually looking forward to hearing whatever ridiculous proposal he’s cooked up, if only for the satisfaction of watching his face when I turn him down.
Turns out getting kicked to the curb is excellent practice for doing the kicking. Who knew?
This is going to be good.
The café is blessedly quiet for this time of day. His security detail posts up at the entrance while we take a table in the corner, and I wrap my hands around a mug of black coffee, trying to ground myself. Gideon sits across from me, his presence seeming to fill the small space.
“I’ll get right to the point,” he says after ordering an espresso. “I need to get married.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Excuse me?”
“I’m facing a hostile takeover attempt. A competitor of mine has found a vulnerability in my corporate structure. My legal team has determined that the only way to protect my assets is through a Spousal Asset Protection Trust.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, I laugh. A short, disbelieving sound.
“And this concerns me how , exactly?”
His eyes meet mine, dead serious. “I’m proposing that you marry me. For six months. After which we’ll divorce, and you’ll receive a settlement that would allow you to open your own gallery, clear your student debt, and create without financial constraints for the foreseeable future.”
Is this a joke? Am I being punk’d right now?
I repress the urge to look around for cameras.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, leaning forward. “You want me. The woman you slept with only once and then kicked out. You want me to marry you to save your business?”
“Yes.”
“And what made you think of me for this ‘role’?”
His expression doesn’t change. “You’re intelligent, independent, and have no connection to my business world. You’re also graduating soon, which means you’re at a natural transition point. The timing works.”
Wow. He really knows how to make a girl feel special.
“So our night together... that was just an audition?” The thought makes me feel slightly ill.
“No,” he says firmly. “That was... unexpected. But it did confirm we have chemistry, which would make our marriage more convincing.”
I take a deep breath, trying to process this insanity. “And what exactly would this marriage entail?”
“We would live together at my penthouse. Attend necessary social and business functions as a couple. You would be co-trustee of a parallel investment entity, which would give us the legal structure needed to block Blackwell’s move.”
“For how long?”
“As I said, six months. Once Blackwell’s takeover attempt is neutralized and the corporate restructuring is complete, we can dissolve the marriage.”
I sit back, stunned by the absurdity of it all. “And what happens if I say no?”
“I find another solution,” he says simply. “But the settlement I’m offering would set you up for life, Ava. Your own gallery. Freedom to create without financial worry. To do everything you’ve dreamed of doing.”
The mention of financial freedom hits a nerve. I think about my student loans. I think about counting paint tubes and stretching supplies. About the compromises I might have to make after graduation just to survive.
“Why me?” I ask again, because I still can’t wrap my head around it. “You could have anyone.”
“I need someone I can trust. Someone who understands boundaries.” His eyes hold mine. “Someone who won’t mistake this for something it isn’t.”
Oh, he’s good. Playing right into my well-documented trust issues and fear of emotional entanglement.
“And what if this competitor of yours investigates me? Finds out I’m just a broke art student?”
“That’s actually an advantage. It makes our relationship more believable. The rags-to-riches story. The billionaire who fell for the talented artist.”
I laugh bitterly. “Except you didn’t fall for me. You made that perfectly clear.”
A flash of something crosses his face. Regret? Annoyance? “That’s in the past. This is just business. ”
“Business,” I repeat, testing the word. “So separate bedrooms?”
“Of course. And a detailed prenuptial agreement protecting both our interests.”
I take another sip of coffee, playing for time while my mind races. This is insane. Completely insane. I was so ready to turn down any offer he made to me. And I still am. Yet...
Financial freedom. My own gallery. No more debt. The chance to create without compromise.
He could be lying...
“I would need guarantees,” I hear myself saying. “Legal protection.”
“Naturally. You would have your own attorney review everything.”
“And no PDA beyond what’s absolutely necessary for appearances.”
He nods. “Agreed.”
“I’d need to maintain my own studio space. My own independence.”
“That’s not a problem.”
I stare at him, searching for the catch. “This is completely crazy, you know that, right?”
“It’s unconventional,” he concedes. “But it solves a problem for both of us.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” I remind him.
“I know.” He checks his watch. “I need an answer soon. Blackwell is making his move tomorrow afternoon.”
The pressure makes me bristle. “ Tomorrow afternoon? Jesus. You weren’t kidding about soon. I... I’ll need time to think.”
“Of course.” He pulls out a business card and writes something on the back. “This is the address for my attorney’s office. Be there at 10 AM tomorrow to sign the papers.”
“I haven’t said yes,” I remind him yet again.
He nods, but slides the card across the table anyway. Our fingers brush as I take it, and that same electric attraction I felt that night zings between us. I pull my hand back quickly.
Can I really do this? Maintain emotional distance when there’s this... whatever this is between us? When he looks so good all the time? When I can’t get that hard body, and the amazing sex, out of my mind?
I close my eyes a moment, then look at him and say, as firmly as I can manage. “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”
“Also, I’ll need your number,” he says, holding out his phone.
We exchange numbers, then he stands, towering over the small café table. “Tomorrow, then.”
I watch him leave with his security detail.
Six months of my life in exchange for financial freedom. A fake marriage to a man who’s already rejected me once.
What could possibly go wrong?
Oh god, this is a very, very bad idea.