10. Gideon
10
Gideon
T he conference table is cluttered with fabric swatches, caterer menus, and legal documents. It’s an unholy trinity of wedding chaos that shouldn’t exist in my pristine office. I run my hands through my hair, a habit I despise but can’t seem to break when stress mounts.
Three fucking days.
That’s all we have until this sham wedding becomes my corporate salvation.
After Celeste’s betrayal, I swore no one would ever have claim to any part of me again, professionally or personally. I’ve always defined myself by my freedom, the ability to make decisions without consultation, to walk away from any situation that doesn’t serve me. Now I’ll be legally bound to someone else, even if it’s just on paper. My jaw clenches at the thought.
Six months , I remind myself. It’s only six fucking months.
The company I’ve built from nothing is worth more than half a year of inconvenience. Even if that inconvenience has thick black curls and eyes that see too much. And a tight, sweet—
“Jonas, where are we on the venue?” I ask, trying to distract myself by tapping my Mont Blanc against the leather portfolio.
My cousin doesn’t look up from his tablet. “The Four Seasons penthouse garden is confirmed. Cost us triple the usual rate for the rush, but it’s done.”
“Good. And the guest list?”
“Carefully curated. Board members, key investors, enough social connections to make it appear authentic without inviting anyone who might ask too many questions.” He finally glances up. “Are you sure about this, Gideon? There are other ways to handle Blackwell.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Litigation, regulatory countermeasures, strategic sell-offs—”
“All of which take time we don’t have.” I stand, walking to the window overlooking Manhattan’s skyline. “The Spousal Asset Protection Trust is our only option. We’ve been over this.”
Jonas shifts his weight, a telltale sign he’s uncomfortable. “It’s not the trust I’m worried about. It’s your choice of bride.”
Something hot and sharp flares in my chest. “And what the fuck is wrong with Ava?”
I’m tired of people underestimating her. It’s really pissing me off.
“Nothing, she seems... nice. But you barely know her.”
“I know enough.” The words come out a growl. I turn back to face him, jaw tight. “She’s intelligent, has no family connections to my business rivals, and unlike the parade of socialites we considered, she actually has something to gain beyond money.”
“The gallery?”
I nod. “A purpose of her own. It keeps her motivated, independent.” I don’t mention how her eyes lit up when I described the settlement terms. That fierce, hungry look of someone seeing their dreams suddenly within reach. It was strangely liberating.
“Still,” Jonas persists, “you spent one night with her. One . And a morning. That’s hardly—”
“Enough.” My voice drops to the low register that silences boardrooms. “I’ve made my decision.”
Jonas raises both hands in surrender, but I catch his knowing smirk. Fuck. I’ve just defended her too emphatically for this to be purely business, and he knows it.
I return to the table, deliberately steadying my breathing.
My phone buzzes with an alert. “The designer has arrived for Ava. I need to introduce them.”
“You’re personally handling the wedding dress?” Jonas’s surprise is evident. “I thought—”
“Image is everything in this charade. The dress needs to convey wealth without ostentation, sophistication without trying too hard.”
I stride through the corridor to the private elevator, adjusting my tie in the mirrored interior as I descend. Each reflection shows what I need the world to see: calm, controlled, commanding. Not a man marrying a woman he can’t stop thinking about despite his best efforts.
When I reach the atrium, Ava is already waiting, looking out of place amidst the corporate sterility in her paint-splattered jeans and oversized sweater. Her thick black curls are piled messily on top of her head, and she’s biting her lower lip. A nervous habit I’ve already begun to recognize.
“Ava,” I announce my presence, watching her startle slightly.
She turns, those wide eyes meeting mine with a complexity that’s becoming familiar. Wariness, determination, and something else I refuse to identify. Her cheeks redden slightly, as they usually do in my presence, and she lowers her gaze slightly.
“Your designer is waiting in the private suite,” I inform her, gesturing toward a corridor.
“About that,” she says, straightening her shoulders in that way she does before challenging me. “I appreciate all this, but I already told you, I’d prefer to choose my own dress.”
I pause, considering. “The designer is Vera Wang.”
Her eyes widen fractionally before she recovers. “That’s impressive. But still my decision.”
“Time is essential. This designer understands the image we need to project.”
“And what image is that exactly?” There’s an edge to her voice.
“Sophisticated. Tasteful. Convincing.”
“As your trophy wife?” She spits the words.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “As my partner in this arrangement. As a woman whose taste and intelligence match her beauty.”
A flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t back down. “I’ll meet with her, but I’m paying for the dress myself.”
I nearly laugh. “A Vera Wang custom gown costs more than—”
“I know exactly what it costs,” she interrupts. “That’s why I’ll choose something within my budget. ”
The stubborn set of her jaw tells me this isn’t negotiable. It’s both infuriating and oddly refreshing. Most women would jump at unlimited access to my credit card.
“Fine. Meet the designer, and if nothing suits you, we’ll discuss alternatives.” A diplomatic compromise.
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this small victory.
“We need to discuss our cover story,” I add. “Tonight, eight o’clock. Video call.”
“I have class until nine.”
“Nine-thirty then.” I don’t phrase it as a question.
After she meets the designer, I return to my office and initiate background checks on everyone involved in the wedding preparations. Every caterer, florist, and venue staff member must sign ironclad NDAs. One leak about the rushed timeline could fuel speculation that would undermine everything.
I’ve already directed Jonas to bring on Elliott Hayes, the reputation strategist who salvaged three Fortune 500 CEOs from career-ending scandals last year. This marriage can’t appear desperate or calculated. If there is a leak, and there’s always a risk, I need someone who can rewrite the narrative before the ink even dries on the story.
The day blurs into night through meetings and crisis management. At precisely nine-thirty, I connect the video call from my home office.
Ava appears on screen, her hair damp, presumably from a shower. The sight is distractingly intimate.
“Let’s review our story,” I begin without preamble, sipping scotch off-camera.
We spend the next hour refining our narrative: how I returned to the gallery as “John” to experience genuine connection, how she was initially upset but understood my motives, how we continued dating and decided to marry quickly because—
“Won’t people find that suspicious?” she interrupts. “The gallery showing was barely a week ago.”
I suck my upper lip momentarily, thinking. “We’ll say when you know, you know. People expect impulsivity from the obscenely wealthy.”
She flashes an ironic smile. “I wouldn’t call an army of lawyers and prenups impulsive...”
“Even the ultra-wealthy have their romantic moments,” I counter, my tone deliberately light. “I could cite several high-profile examples of rapid engagements.”
“That’s not what I meant about suspicious,” she says, leaning closer to the camera. “People will question why a man who built an empire through calculated decisions would suddenly rush into marriage. Even if you’re prenupped to the gills. They’ll assume there’s an ulterior motive.” She tucks a damp curl behind her ear. “Which there is, of course.”
“Then perhaps I’ll say you were an exception to my usual methodical approach.” The words come out before I can filter them, too honest for comfort.
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, followed by something more complex.
“It sounds... romantic enough to be believable,” she finally says, her voice careful.
“That’s the point. Romance sells the story.”
“Right.” She glances away. “Just a story.”
“Exactly.”
We both fall silent, the unacknowledged tension stretching between us. I remind myself of the contract’s most important clause. No emotional involvement. We both wanted it, for fuck’s sake .
“Blackwell won’t believe it,” she says suddenly.
“He doesn’t need to. He’ll suspect the truth, but suspicion isn’t proof. Legally, we’ll be Mr. and Mrs. King, with all the protections that entails. Sure, he’ll launch lawsuits, but by the time he maneuvers through the legal challenges, the trust will be established.”
She nods slowly. “You’ve thought of everything, I guess. Of course you have. You’re Gideon King .”
Something in her voice when she says my name, a subtle edge of mockery or resentment, makes my jaw tighten. There it is again, that complicated mixture of defiance and wariness that seems to define her interactions with me of late. Part of me appreciates her refusal to be intimidated; another part finds it irritating that she’s reducing me to some caricature of wealth and power.
Before I can formulate a response that won’t sound defensive, she shifts in her chair. “Well, I should go. Early class tomorrow.”
I let my face settle into neutral professionalism, swallowing whatever retort had been forming. This arrangement works best with clear boundaries. “Of course. The car will collect you at two for the final fitting.”
She doesn’t contest me on that point, which surprises me. At least I’ve gotten her to stop using the subway. After pushback on everything from the guest list to the flower arrangements, her quiet acceptance feels like a small victory. The thought of her taking the subway, my soon-to-be wife navigating those grimy, unpredictable tunnels, makes something possessive tighten in my chest.
It’s about appearances and protection, I tell myself. A necessary adjustment to our new reality. I mean come on, billionaires’ wives are prime kidnapping targets. My security team would have a fucking aneurysm trying to maintain coverage in those packed train cars.
I haven’t mentioned any of this to her directly, of course. Better that she thinks it’s about maintaining our facade than knowing I’ve already gone through every threat scenario involving her safety. The wife of Gideon King moves through the world differently. Protected, insulated, watched. It’s a cage of privilege she doesn’t yet understand, but one she’ll need to accept. For both our sakes. For the next six months, at least.
After disconnecting, I pour another scotch and stare at the blank screen. I won’t admit, even to myself, that I’m thinking about how her eyes darkened when I moved closer earlier today, or how her face flushed and her breathing changed when I complimented her intelligence alongside her beauty.
This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.
Three days until I marry a woman I can’t afford to want.