9. Ava
9
Ava
T he law office of Hoffman, Weiss & Partners makes my art school’s admin building look like a cardboard fort. A waiting area featuring uncomfortable couches with magazines about yachting and hedge funds fanning out in front of them like a mood board for financial nightmares. Glass walls that probably gets polished hourly by someone whose salary exceeds my annual tuition. Mahogany desks wherever I look. Everything gleams with the kind of polish that screams “we bill $1700 an hour to read your emails.”
I’m currently sitting across from Gideon King, who’s so at home here you’d think they keep his DNA on file. Meanwhile, I’m fighting the urge to check if I’ve accidentally tracked paint across their pristine marble floors.
Welcome to My Big Fat Fake Billionaire Wedding: Legal Edition.
Gideon’s eyebrow lifts slightly as I pull out my three pages of handwritten conditions. “You’ve been busy. ”
“I don’t believe in sleeping when life-altering decisions are on the table,” I reply, trying to ignore how good he looks in that bespoke suit.
Focus on the contract, not the contours, Ava.
It doesn’t help that his cologne keeps conjuring unnecessary memories.
Concentrate, Ava.
Mr. Hoffman, a silver-haired man with gold-rimmed glasses, clears his throat. “Miss Redwood, while we appreciate your... enthusiasm, we have already prepared a standard agreement that covers all necessary aspects of this arrangement.”
“I’m sure you have,” I say bluntly, sliding my papers toward him. “And I’m also sure Mr. King appreciates thoroughness in business dealings. I didn’t come here two hours early to sign a ‘standard agreement.’ Your client specifically told me he would consider my conditions.”
Gideon’s mouth twitches. “She’s right, Howard. I did tell her. Let’s hear what she has to say.”
The lawyer adjusts his glasses with a thinly veiled sigh. I feel heat rising to my cheeks but press on anyway.
“So. I want these in writing. First, separate bedrooms. Non-negotiable.”
Gideon nods once. “Agreed.”
“Second, I maintain complete artistic freedom. My work, my decisions, my career path.”
“Of course.”
“Third,” I flip to my second page, “public appearances are limited to essential business functions. No excessive PDA.”
“Define excessive,” Gideon interjects.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Public displays of affection,” he clarifies, leaning forward slightly. “We need to appear genuinely married. That requires some level of physical contact. I need parameters.”
My face burns hotter.
Great. Now we’re negotiating how much he gets to touch me. This is totally normal Tuesday morning activity.
“Hand-holding is fine. Brief kisses if absolutely necessary for appearances. Arm around the waist in social settings.” I’m surprised by how clinical my voice sounds discussing something so intimate.
“Acceptable,” Gideon says. “Continue.”
“Fourth, I want financial autonomy. The settlement goes into an account in my name only.”
Mr. Hoffman interjects, “That contradicts the purpose of the Spousal Asset Protection Trust. Perhaps you don’t fully understand the legal structure—”
“I understand enough,” I cut in, heart hammering. “The trust needs to exist for his company’s protection. That’s separate from my compensation.”
Gideon studies me, his gray eyes intense. “She’s right again, Howard. The settlement is hers, unconditional upon the success of our arrangement.”
The lawyer makes a note, clearly unhappy being overruled twice in five minutes.
“I also want the first installment of the settlement paid upfront, immediately after signing,” I add, gripping my pen tighter. Because trust issues are my superpower, and also, art supplies aren’t getting any cheaper.
Gideon tilts his head slightly. “May I ask what the rush is?”
“No.” I keep my voice steady despite the nervous flutter in my stomach.
He considers this for a moment, then nods. “Reasonable. Howard, add a clause for an immediate first installment of—” he glances at me “—ten percent of the total settlement?”
My eyebrows shoot up. That’s more than I expected to negotiate for. I’m speechless, and can’t formulate an answer immediately.
He takes my lack of response for a refusal.
“Fine,” Gideon says. “Twenty percent. But no higher.”
“That,” I squeak. “Would be adequate.”
Adequate? It would be life-changing. I could actually afford a real studio instead of my apartment’s sad excuse for a workspace where I’m constantly apologizing to my neighbors for the fumes.
“And finally,” I say, swallowing hard, “no emotional involvement.”
The room goes quiet. I can hear the tick of an antique clock somewhere behind me.
Gideon and Mr. Hoffman exchange a glance, and the lawyer flips through his papers, clearing his throat.
“That provision has already been included,” Mr. Hoffman says, turning the contract around and pointing to a clause highlighted in yellow. “Section 7.3 explicitly states that ‘both parties acknowledge this arrangement is strictly business in nature and neither party shall develop or pursue emotional attachment beyond what is necessary for public appearances.’”
I blink several times, reading the clause word for word. It’s even more clinical than how I would have phrased it.
Great minds think alike? Or severely damaged minds? Not sure which is worse, that he anticipated my trust issues or that we’re both equally terrible at normal human connections .
“I see we’re on the same page.” I try to keep my voice neutral while my thoughts race. “That’s good.”
Gideon’s expression is unreadable as he watches me process this information. “I thought clarity on this point would benefit us both.”
Benefit us both. Like we’re discussing the terms of a car lease, not whether we might accidentally fall in love. Apparently we’re both allergic to feelings. Should I be relieved or concerned that emotional detachment was on his must-have list too?
“Extremely clear,” I agree, offering a tight smile. “I appreciate the thoroughness.”
Mr. Hoffman looks between us. “Well, the rest of Ms. Redwood’s terms can certainly be incorporated. We’ll need to revise the draft agreement.”
“Do it,” Gideon orders, not taking his eyes off me. “How soon can we have the revised contract?”
“By 9 AM,” the lawyer replies, gathering his papers.
“Good. Miss Redwood will need time to review before signing.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Cutting it close for your 10 AM deadline, aren’t we?”
“That deadline is for the preliminary agreements,” Gideon explains. “The filing for the trust structure happens after our marriage is legally recorded.”
“Our marriage ,” I repeat, the reality suddenly hitting me like a bucket of cold water. “When exactly is that happening?”
“Friday.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “This Friday? As in three days from now?”
“The situation with Blackwell is accelerating,” he says simply. “Time is crucial.”
He’s talking about our wedding like it’s a board meeting to reschedule. Where’s the champagne? Where’s the crying mother? Where’s the insane debate about centerpieces that nobody will remember? The multi-tiered buttercream cake skyscraper to die for?
“Fine,” I say, gathering my wits. “Friday it is. City Hall?”
“My penthouse. Justice Weber owes me a favor. We’ll have a small ceremony with just enough witnesses to make it legally binding and socially convincing.”
“Of course he knows a judge,” I mutter. “And I suppose you’ve already picked out my dress too?”
Gideon’s lips quirk up at one corner. “Actually, I thought you might want to handle that detail yourself. Though I’m happy to provide a budget if—”
“I can buy my own goddamn wedding dress, thank you very much,” I interrupt, and immediately regret the outburst. The thought of dropping money on a dress for a fake wedding makes my stomach twist. Ah well, at least I’ll get the money back when I get the first installment of the settlement. “Will that be all for now, gentlemen?”
“Not quite,” Gideon says. “We need to review the financial structure next.” He glances at Mr. Hoffman. “Let’s move to the conference room.”
Two hours later, my head is swimming with terms like “equitable subrogation,” “beneficial interest,” and “third-party derivative actions.” Mr. Hoffman has been walking me through a PowerPoint presentation that might as well be in Sanskrit.
“So as trustee of the parallel investment entity,” he explains, pointing to a complex flowchart, “you’ll have legal authority to direct acquisition strategy within pre-established parameters.”
I nod, pretending to understand more than 20% of what she’s saying.
Smile and nod. Smile and nod. You can Google all this later.
His partner in the firm, Mr. Weiss, gives me a patronizing smile. “Perhaps we should simplify this for Ms. Redwood. After all, her expertise is in... painting, correct?”
The room goes quiet. The air conditioner hums softly in the background. I can feel every eye on me, including Gideon’s, whose jaw has tightened almost imperceptibly.
Heat rushes to my face, but this time it’s not embarrassment. It’s anger.
Oh hell no. I didn’t agree to marry a billionaire just to be talked down to by his moronic minions.
“Actually,” I say sweetly, “I understand the concept perfectly. The parallel investment entity creates a separate voting block that circumvents Blackwell’s attempt to trigger the deadlock provision.” Well I might only get 20% of all the jargon, I understand that part very well. The research I did last night helps, of course.
The silence that follows is absolute. Mr. Weiss blinks rapidly. Mr. Hoffman’s eyebrows shoot up. And Gideon, well he’s is looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. He seems almost... proud?
“I mean, I did some research last night,” I add with a shrug. “The SEC website is surprisingly readable at 4 AM.”
Mr. Hoffman recovers first. “That’s... exactly right, Miss Redwood.”
I take a sip of my now-cold coffee to hide my smile.
Score one for the art major.
As the meeting wraps up, I sign the revised agreement with the artistic flair of someone who’s both exhausted and slightly terrified. Handshakes all around: firm lawyer grips that scream “we’ve just earned our retainer” and finally, Gideon’s. I’m startled by how normal it feels. Like shaking hands with a gallery owner, not the guy who’d made me see stars. The electricity I’d felt before seems to have short-circuited somewhere between “equitable subrogation” and “beneficial interest.”
Is this what happens when you negotiate the romance out of a relationship before it even starts? Or maybe three hours of legal jargon is nature’s most effective libido killer.
I steal another glance at him, searching for that flutter. Nothing. Just two business partners sealing a deal with ink instead of chemistry.
Great. We’ve already managed to lawyer the attraction right out of us.
Gideon walks me to the elevator. We stand in silence until the doors close, leaving us momentarily alone.
“So it’s done,” he says quietly.
“It is,” I agree.
He pauses. “You know, you continue to surprise me, Ava.”
“How so?”
He shakes his head. “You’re a better negotiator than I thought. And you’ve done your research. Well done.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the descending floor numbers. “Most of them involve paint and poor life choices, but occasionally I pull out a corporate law reference.”
He laughs, a genuine sound that makes something flutter in my chest.
So not all of the attraction is gone.
Not sure if that’s good or bad.
“I think this is going to work out well,” Gideon announces.
“Perhaps.” I smile. “After all, it’s just business, remember?” I say it more to remind myself than him.
“Of course,” he agrees, his expression cooling. “Just business.”
The elevator doors open and I step out, leaving Gideon King and his world of high finance behind me. At least for the next 72 hours.
Until I become his wife.
Dear god, I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this.
Just another day in my so-called life. Painting in the morning, negotiating prenups by noon, becoming a billionaire’s fake wife by Friday.
Totally normal.
It’s going to be a long six months.