11. Ava
11
Ava
T he dress doesn’t feel like mine. It never will.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. When I insisted on paying for my own Vera Wang, I thought I’d find something simple. You know, a plain white fabric in the $3,000 range I could justify as an “investment piece.” Something I could actually fit on my credit card, if only barely.
Then I saw the price tags.
Turns out there’s no such thing as a “budget” Vera Wang wedding dress, especially not one that could be ready in three days. So here I am, draped in ivory silk that flows like water and hand-beaded lace that probably took some poor soul a hundred hours to complete. The “business expense” Gideon casually charged to his corporate card would cover my rent for the next three years.
Look at you, Ava. Playing dress-up in the billionaire fantasy. Your stepfather would probably choke on his morning coffee if he saw you now.
What a happy thought .
“Five minutes, Ms. Redwood.” A woman in a sleek black pantsuit pokes her head in, giving me a professional smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Everyone who works for Gideon has that same expression. You know... polite, distant, unreadable. I wonder if they train for it.
“Thank you.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
You can do this.
When the door closes, I collapse onto the velvet ottoman, careful not to wrinkle the dress.
“Knock, knock.” Lucy’s voice precedes her as she slips into the room, resplendent in a deep blue bridesmaid dress. “Holy shit, Ava. You look—”
“Like I’m about to throw up?” I offer, twisting the borrowed tennis bracelet on my wrist.
“I was going to say stunning.” She crosses the room and takes my hands. “Like a goddamn princess who’s about to marry a smoking hot billionaire. Which, by the way, you still owe me the full story on. One minute you’re having a meltdown about spilling champagne on him, and the next you’re walking down the aisle?”
I force a smile, guilt churning in my stomach. “It all happened so fast.”
“No kidding.” Lucy narrows her eyes. “Most people date for more than a week before getting hitched. You’ve been so secretive about everything.”
“It’s been... intense,” I manage, which isn’t exactly a lie.
Just breathe, Ava. It’s a performance. Like that time you had to play the tree in the third-grade play. Except with better wardrobe and you’re lying to your best friend.
I should tell her, I know I should. But honestly, I’m not even sure I’m going to go through with this .
Lucy studies my face. “Are you having second thoughts? Because you look like you’re attending a funeral, not your wedding.”
“No! I’m just overwhelmed.” I stand, smoothing the dress again. “It’s a lot to process. I mean, a month ago I was just an art student with mac ‘n’ cheese budget, and now I’m marrying Gideon King.”
“The sex is mind-blowing, isn’t it,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
My face heats up further. “It’s not— I mean we’re not—”
A knock at the door saves me from having to finish. It’s the coordinator again, looking slightly more stressed. “It’s time, Ms. Redwood.”
Lucy grabs my bouquet. White roses and some fancy greenery that probably has a name I should know. She hands it to me. “Showtime, Mrs. Almost-King.”
Oh god.
The venue is a private rooftop terrace at the Four Seasons. Because of course it is. Fairy lights twinkle against the darkening Manhattan sky, reflecting off the glass of the surrounding skyscrapers. Despite the rush, Gideon’s team has transformed the space into something out of a magazine spread. White flowers cascade from seemingly every surface, their scent light in the early evening air. A white carpet creates an aisle between two small seating sections, though most of the chairs are empty. This isn’t a real wedding with family and friends. It’s a business merger with witnesses.
Such a terrible waste of money.
But I guess appearances are important, I think when I spot the cameras present.
I pause at the entrance, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. At the end of the aisle stands Gideon, his tall figure immaculate in what I’m sure is a custom white Tom Ford tuxedo. His cousin Jonas stands beside him, looking almost bored as he checks his watch.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane. I can’t do it.
Dean Wess, who somehow got ordained online just for this occasion, waits with a theatrical smile, clearly relishing his role in this charade. If only he knew the whole truth.
I wonder how many people here actually know other than Gideon and I? His lawyers. Anyone else?
The contract specifically limited knowledge of our arrangement to our witnesses and the necessary legal team, so I can’t be sure.
When “Here Come The Bride” begins, Lucy gives me a gentle nudge.
“That’s your cue.”
I swallow hard. My feet move forward of their own accord. The heels click softly against the carpet. Jimmy Choo heels , I think absently. Another “business expense.”
I focus on not tripping, on holding the bouquet at just the right height, on keeping my expression serene rather than terrified.
Gideon’s eyes find mine, and there’s something in them I can’t decipher. Interest? Amusement? Appraisal? Whatever it is, it makes heat rush to my cheeks.
He looks good. Unfairly good. Like he was born to command rooms and ruin women.
I reach the end of the aisle and take my place opposite him. Up close, I can smell his cologne. That usual expensive, subtle scent I remember all too well from the night and morning after we spent together. The night that was supposed to be our only night.
“Dearly beloved,” Dean begins, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of someone who’s watched too many movie weddings. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Gideon John King and Ava Marie Redwood in holy matrimony.”
I stare at the knot of Gideon’s tie, unable to meet his eyes. This feels too real and too fake simultaneously. The words wash over me. Commitments, promises, vows that neither of us intends to keep beyond the contractually obligated timeframe.
“The rings, please,” Dean announces with flourish.
Jonas produces two bands from his pocket. Platinum for Gideon, and for me, a delicate ring with a tasteful diamond.
This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real...
Gideon takes my hand. His palm is warm and dry against my clammy fingers. He slides the ring onto my finger with practiced ease.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he says, his deep voice resonating in the quiet space.
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. My breath catches in my throat, a hot flush climbing up my neck.
Oh no. No, no, no. This is NOT happening. You are NOT feeling things. This is a BUSINESS ARRANGEMENT, Ava. Get it together.
My turn now. My fingers tremble as I take his ring from Dean. Gideon’s hand dwarfs mine, strong and steady as I slide the band onto his finger. The flush doesn’t stop at my neck, racing up to my cheeks and forehead like wildfire.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. I can feel tiny beads of sweat forming along my hairline, and seriously, is the air conditioning even working in this place?
“By the power vested in me by the state of New York and the internet,” Dean declares with a wink that makes me want to sink through the floor, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He pauses dramatically. “You may kiss the bride.”
Oh god. The kiss. We never discussed the kiss. How did we not discuss the kiss?
Gideon’s expression remains neutral, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Challenge? He leans down, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. His touch is gentle, almost tender, and entirely at odds with the coldly negotiated terms of our arrangement.
His mouth meets mine. The kiss is professional at first. Stage kiss, closed-mouth, appropriate for the minimal audience. But then his lips soften against mine, and something shifts. My body remembers his, remembers the way we fit together, the heat we generated. My free hand moves of its own accord to his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the expensive fabric.
This isn’t in the contract. This flutter in my stomach definitely violates section 5, paragraph 3: “No emotional involvement.”
He pulls back first, his expression unreadable. A small, private smile plays at the corner of his mouth, visible only to me.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dean announces to our small audience, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. King!”
Polite applause ensues. A photographer, another person on Gideon’s payroll, captures the moment for posterity. Or evidence. Or whatever you call wedding photos when the marriage has a predetermined end date.
As we turn to walk back down the aisle, Gideon’s hand finds the small of my back, warm and solid. I should pull away. I should maintain distance. Instead, I lean slightly into his touch, telling myself it’s just for show.
The reception is mercifully brief. Champagne and canapés in a private dining room. Lucy chatters excitedly about the ceremony while Gideon makes business small talk with some of the guests.
Champagne flute in hand, Lucy turns to me. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I force a smile. “I’m fine. Just hit me that I’m actually married.”
“To one of New York’s most eligible bachelors,” she adds. “A man who, might I add, couldn’t take his eyes off you during that ceremony.” She lowers her voice. “Seriously, Ava, what’s going on? You’ve been acting weird all day. This should be the happiest moment of your life.”
I twist the very real ring on my finger. “It is. It’s just... so fast.”
“You said that already!” She exclaims. “But that’s what happens when you fall in love, apparently.” She studies me over the rim of her glass. “It is love, right? You’re not pregnant or something?”
“Lucy!” I hiss, my face flaming.
“Just checking! People don’t usually get married after a week unless there’s a bun in the oven or they’re completely, madly in love.”
When Lucy excuses herself to use the ladies room, I sip champagne alone, watching my new husband navigate the room with ease.
Your temporary husband, I remind myself. Your business partner with benefits. Wait, no. Not with benefits. That’s not part of the deal.
“Congratulations,” Jonas says, suddenly appearing at my side. His tone is pleasant but his eyes are assessing.
“Thank you,” I reply, forcing a smile. “It all came together nicely, considering the timeline.”
“Gideon is efficient when he wants something.” Jonas swirls his champagne. “Though I must admit, this is extreme even for him.”
I take another sip, unsure how to respond. Does Jonas know the truth?
“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” he adds, his voice lower.
So he does know.
I feel another pang of guilt for not letting Lucy in on this.
My grip tightens on the delicate flute. “I believe the terms were quite clear.”
Jonas studies me for a moment. “Terms change. Circumstances change.” He glances at Gideon, who’s now speaking with Dean. “People rarely do.”
Before I can decipher this cryptic warning, Gideon joins us, sliding an arm around my waist with casual possessiveness.
“Sharing marriage advice already, cousin?” His tone is light but there’s an edge underneath.
“Just welcoming Ava to the family,” Jonas replies smoothly, raising his glass. “To the happy couple.”
We clink glasses, the sound bright and brittle in the hushed room.
Later, as the small gathering winds down, I find myself standing alone by the windows, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. The lights blur together .
Mrs. King. I’m Mrs. King now. For six months, at least.
The weight of the ring on my finger feels strange. It’s a symbol of commitment that’s been perverted into a business strategy. I twist it absently, watching the diamond catch the light.
“Having second thoughts already?” Gideon’s voice startles me.
I turn to find him standing close. Too close. His presence is overwhelming in the small alcove.
“Just processing,” I reply honestly. “It’s a lot to take in.”
“The ceremony went well.” His gaze sweeps over me. “You played your part perfectly.”
“Thanks. I always thought I’d make a good actress. Who knew?”
His lips quirk. “Was that all it was? Acting?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications.
“Of course,” I say quickly. “What else would it be?”
Gideon studies me. “Nothing else. We’re clear on the terms.”
“Crystal clear.”
“Good.” He glances at his super expensive watch. “The car is waiting. It’ll take you to the penthouse.”
“The penthouse?” I blink, confused.
“Your home for the next six months, remember?” he explains. “You already moved your things. Boxes waiting to be unpacked.”
Our home. My things.
The reality of what I’ve agreed to crashes over me. This is my life for the next six months. Living with him. Being seen with him. Mrs. Gideon King in every way that matters to the outside world.
“Right,” I manage to say. “Don’t know... how I could forget.”
Gideon hesitates, then reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. The gesture is oddly intimate, and I shiver involuntarily.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “you make a beautiful bride.” Before I can fully process the warmth behind his words, he’s already pulling away. “Well, I have some matters to attend to. I’ll be home later tonight.”
I watch him walk away, the straight set of his shoulders, the steady confidence in his stride. Yet beneath that composed surface, he’s as much a mystery to me as ever.
This man I just married.
This man whose heart I hardly know.
This man I’m forbidden to want, to cherish. Or worse, to need .
Well, it’s only six months, I remind myself.
Yeah, six months of living an unsanctioned reality TV series called ‘The Billionaire’s Wife,’ with no director, no script revisions, and no understudy waiting in the wings if I royally screw this up.
Should be fun.