8. Ava
8
Ava
I ’m staring at my bedroom ceiling like it’s a blank canvas that might suddenly reveal the answer to life’s greatest question: Should I marry a billionaire I barely know for money?
I check the clock beside my bed. 3:17 AM
Just another Tuesday night for Ava Redwood. Next week: should I sell my left toe for art supplies?
I roll over and fluff my pillow, which does absolutely nothing to make it more comfortable. The apartment is quiet except for the occasional car horn from the street below and the persistent hum of my ancient refrigerator. My sheets smell like turpentine despite three washes, a permanent occupational hazard. Billionaires are another occupational hazard in this line of work, apparently.
Why me? Why?
“This is insane,” I mutter to my empty room. “Completely insane.”
I grab my phone and pull up Lucy’s contact. She’ll either have brilliant advice or tell me I’ve lost my mind. Both seem equally helpful right now. I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
“Someone better be dead,” Lucy’s sleep-slurred voice comes through after four rings.
“It’s me. Sorry about the time.”
“Ava? What’s wrong?” Her voice sharpens with concern.
I twist a loose thread on my comforter. “Hypothetically, if someone offered you a life-changing amount of money to do something crazy but technically legal, would you do it?”
“That depends. Are we talking ‘flash a stranger’ crazy or ‘help hide a body’ crazy?”
“Somewhere in between?” I offer, chewing my bottom lip.
“Is this about that gallery owner who kept staring at your butt during the showcase?”
“No! God, no. Nothing like that.” I feel my face heating up despite being alone in the dark. “Just a... business proposition.”
“At three in the morning?” Her suspicion is palpable through the phone.
“I can’t sleep.”
“A business proposition...” Lucy’s voice trails off. “Oh my god. It’s Gideon King, isn’t it? He wants you to work with him? Do it!”
My stomach drops. I forget sometimes how perceptive Lucy can be, especially about things I’d rather keep private.
So much for being subtle. My poker face fails even through phone lines.
“I... it’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I can practically hear her sitting up in bed, sleep forgotten. “I knew something was up when he showed up earlier! Spill. Everything. Now.”
I press my palm against my forehead, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks even though I’m alone in the dark. “It’s not exactly work-related. Well, it is, but also... personal.”
“Personal?” Lucy’s voice rises an octave. “Are you sleeping with Gideon King? The Gideon King?”
“Keep your voice down! You’ll wake your roommate.”
“So that’s a yes! Oh my god, Ava!”
“It’s not— I mean, we did, but that’s not—” I stammer, then groan in frustration. “Look, something might be happening between us. Something significant. But I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it too much.”
Not a complete lie. Just omitting the part where “significant” means “legally binding” and “happening between us” means “financial transaction disguised as matrimony.”
Lucy squeals softly. “This is huge! He’s like, what, Forbes 30 Under 40? And gorgeous? And he collects art? Ava, this is literally your dream man.”
“He’s also complicated and intense and probably has more baggage than JFK during holiday season,” I counter, but I can’t keep the smile from my voice.
“So does everyone worth knowing,” Lucy says. “But seriously, is that what the business proposition is about? Some kind of arrangement?”
My breath catches. “What do you mean by ‘arrangement’?”
“I don’t know, like commissioning pieces or setting up a showing? Unless...” She gasps. “Is he asking you to move in with him or something?”
Relief floods through me. “It’s all moving really fast. I just need to decide if I’m willing to take a risk.”
Lucy is quiet for a moment. “You know I love you, right?”
“Of course.”
“And you know I’d tell you if I thought someone was bad for you?”
“You’ve done it before,” I say, remembering her brutal assessment of my last boyfriend, which turned out to be painfully accurate.
“Well, I think you should go for it,” she says firmly. “But make sure whatever this is doesn’t compromise your art or your dignity. Everything else is negotiable.”
“That’s actually... surprisingly good advice.”
“I’m full of surprises when unconscious. Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Yes. Sorry. Thank you.”
“Good luck with all this. I’m so excited for you. And Ava?”
“Yeah?”
“I expect full details when this is no longer a jinxable thing.”
I laugh softly. “Goodnight, Lucy.”
After hanging up, I switch to my laptop and type “Gideon King business” into the search bar. Articles flood my screen. Profiles in Forbes, Business Insider, mentions of his art collection, and most recently, rumors of a hostile takeover attempt by a man named Mark Blackwell.
So he wasn’t lying about a competitor.
I open a new document and start typing.
PROS:
Financial freedom
Pay off student loans (thanks again, Stepdad from Hell)
Open my own gallery
Create art without worrying about rent
It’s temporary
We already have... chemistry
I stop at that last point, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The memory of our night together sends an involuntary tingling through me.
Focus, Ava. This is business. Feelings aren’t allowed.
CONS:
Living with a stranger
Pretending to be in love
Public scrutiny
He’s controlling
Trust issues (his AND mine)
Possible heartbreak if I forget this isn’t real
I stare at the screen until the words blur together. The pros are concrete, tangible. The cons are emotional, fears that exist primarily in my head.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lucy: “Whatever it is, just make sure you get everything in writing.”
I snort. If only she knew.
In the kitchen, I make coffee even though it’s now 4:38 AM. The familiar ritual of measuring grounds, waiting for the water to boil, the rich aroma filling my tiny apartment, it settles my nerves slightly. I cradle the warm mug between my palms and try to imagine myself in Gideon’s world.
Mrs. Gideon King. Or is it Mrs. Ava Redwood King? God, I haven’t even thought about my name.
The sky outside my window gradually lightens from black to deep blue. I’ve made my decision, but my stomach twists with uncertainty. I grab a sketchpad and start drafting terms of my own. If I’m going into this arrangement, I’m not doing it completely on his terms.
My own studio space that he can’t enter without permission
Continue my education and career without interference
Maintain separate finances apart from the settlement
An up-front payment immediately after signing
No public displays of affection unless absolutely necessary
I mentioned many of those points to him already verbally, but I need it in writing. I also add more, crossing out and rewriting until the page is a mess of amendments and additions. By the time sunlight streams through my blinds, I’ve filled three pages with terms and conditions .
My phone rings, displaying Gideon’s number. My heart jumps into my throat.
“Hello?” I answer, trying to sound like someone who has slept in the last 24 hours.
“Have you made your decision?” His voice is all business, no hint of the man who once whispered against my skin.
I take a deep breath. “Yes.”
“And?”
“I’ll do it.” My voice sounds stronger than I feel. “But I have conditions of my own.”
There’s a pause, and I wonder if he’s surprised or annoyed. Then he chuckles, a low rumble that does unfair things to my stomach.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Ava.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a ‘we should discuss the details in person.’ Let’s meet as soon as possible. We need to finalize this and get it signed by 10 AM.”
I glance around at my disaster of an apartment, at the coffee mug rings on my pros and cons list, at the sketchpad filled with demands from a woman who has no leverage except the fact that he needs her.
“Okay,” I say, sounding much more confident than the riot of butterflies in my stomach would suggest. “8 AM at the coffee shop on West 4th?”
“7:30 please. 8 is cutting it too close. I’ll send a car.”
“I’ll take the subway.”
Another pause. “As you wish. Also, we meet at my attorney’s office, not a coffee shop. You still have the card I gave you with the address?”
It’s sitting on the table in front of me. “I do.”
“Then I’ll see you at 7:30. Don’t be late.”
He hangs up, and I collapse back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling again but with a whole new perspective.
Well, Grandma, you always said my art would take me places. I’m pretty sure this wasn’t what you had in mind.
I laugh, a slightly hysterical sound in my quiet apartment, and wonder if I’ve just made the best decision of my life.
Or the absolute worst.
Time will tell.