12. Gideon
12
Gideon
I t’s nearly midnight when I finally make it back to the penthouse. The meeting with my legal team dragged on longer than expected, strategizing our next countermoves against Blackwell. The marriage is just the first step. Now comes the complex dance of asset restructuring that will shield everything I’ve built.
I loosen my tie as the elevator ascends to my penthouse. Our penthouse, I correct myself. That’s going to take some getting used to.
When the doors slide open, I’m greeted by an unfamiliar scene. Boxes are scattered across my usually pristine living room, some already emptied, their contents spilling out in colorful disarray. The minimalist space I’ve carefully curated now hosts random bursts of color and chaos.
Ava stands in the center of it all, her wedding dress exchanged for paint-spattered jeans and an oversized Parsons sweatshirt. Her dark curls are piled messily on top of her head, and she’s barefoot, attempting to hang what appears to be an abstract canvas above my Italian leather sofa.
I feel my jaw tighten, a familiar tension spreading through my shoulders.
This is exactly what I feared. Immediate disruption to my carefully ordered space without even a courtesy discussion first.
I consciously release the tension. This arrangement requires compromise, even from me. Especially from me. It’s a calculated transaction, and some discomfort is simply part of the cost.
“Need some help?” I ask, setting my briefcase down.
She startles, nearly dropping the painting. “Jesus! You scared me.”
“Sorry. But I did say I’d be back tonight.” I glance around at the transformation already taking place. “You’ve been busy.”
“I figured I might as well dive in.” She gestures vaguely at the boxes. “Rip off the Band-Aid, you know?”
I nod, removing my suit jacket and draping it over a nearby chair. “You’ve already found a place for your work?”
“Oh.” She looks at the painting in her hands, suddenly hesitant. “I should have asked first. Sorry. It’s your place, and I didn’t mean to—”
“ Our place,” I correct. “For the next six months, anyway. But yes, next time I’d appreciate it if you asked, first.”
I move closer to examine the canvas she’s holding. It’s a riot of blues and purples, chaotic but somehow harmonious. Nothing like the carefully selected pieces in my collection, yet I find myself drawn to its raw energy .
“It’s good,” I say, genuinely impressed.
Relief flashes across her face. Along with the usual blush. “Thank you.”
I hold out my arms. “Above the couch, then?”
“Above the couch,” she agrees. “Thought I’d give the de Kooning some company, sitting all alone over here .”
I smile. When I take the painting off her hands, our fingers brush briefly. The contact sends an unexpected feeling through me that I quickly suppress.
As I hang the canvas, I’m acutely aware of her closeness, and of the strange domesticity of the moment. This isn’t how I imagined my evening would end when I woke up this morning as a bachelor.
“Thanks,” she says when I finish. “You’re pretty handy for a billionaire.”
“I didn’t always have people doing things for me,” I reply. “Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon.”
“No?” She looks genuinely curious as she settles onto the edge of the sofa. “How did you start, then?”
“Construction work through college. Then flipping houses. Then apartment buildings.” I shrug. “It wasn’t glamorous.”
“Hence the scars.” She gestures to my knuckles.
I glance down at my hands, surprised she noticed the faint white lines crisscrossing my skin. Most people don’t look that closely.
“Some from construction. Some from a more... colorful youth.” I change the subject quickly. “Have you eaten?”
“I had some wedding cake.” She grins sheepishly. “I may have stolen an entire tier for myself.”
“That’s hardly dinner.” I move toward the kitchen, loosening my tie further. “I can order something.”
“At midnight?” She follows me, hopping onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island. “Everything’s closed.”
I unlock my phone. “Not for me.”
“Of course not,” she mutters, but there’s amusement in her voice rather than judgment. “Do billionaires have secret midnight food delivery services the rest of us don’t know about?”
“Something like that.” I scroll through my contacts. “Preferences?”
“Surprise me. But nothing with truffles or gold leaf or whatever rich people put on food.”
I can’t help but smile at that. “Fine. No truffles.”
While waiting for a response to my text, I notice Ava frowning at one of the wall panels. “Something wrong?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out how your lights work for the past hour,” she admits. “This place is like a frickin’ spaceship.”
“The smart home system takes some getting used to.” I approach the panel she’s been looking at. “It’s voice-activated, but there are manual controls too.”
I demonstrate, dimming the overhead lights and brightening the undercabinet lighting. “You can also control the temperature, blinds, music. Pretty much everything. You can also use the tablet. Here, I’ll show you the basics.”
I surprise myself with the suggestion. I’d planned a cursory orientation at most, preferably delegated to my household manager. Yet here I am, personally walking her through the system.
“I had to assign you security clearance too.” I pull out the tablet from its charging dock. “Your fingerprints are already in the system. Remember when we scanned them at the law office?”
“That’s not creepy at all,” she mutters.
“It’s necessary.” My tone turns serious. “Security is non-negotiable, Ava. The penthouse has restricted elevator access, and there are protocols you’ll need to follow.”
She straightens, sensing my shift in mood. “Like what?”
“For starters, you don’t go anywhere without security.” I pull up the security app on the tablet. “You’ll have two guards with you at all times when you leave the building.”
“What? That wasn’t in the contract!” She stands abruptly. “I can’t have babysitters following me to art class!”
“It’s standard procedure for anyone associated with me,” I explain calmly. “I have threats. Competitors. People who would use any vulnerability.”
“I’m not a vulnerability,” she argues. “I’m an art student nobody gives a shit about!”
“You’re my wife now,” I counter, the words feeling strange on my tongue. “That makes you a target, whether you like it or not.”
She runs her hands through her hair, dislodging more curls from her already messy bun. “This is fucked up. I didn’t sign up to be a prisoner.”
“You’re not a prisoner ,” I say in exasperation, trying to keep my frustration in check. “You’re protected. There’s a difference.”
“Doesn’t feel like it from where I’m standing.” She crosses her arms, looking suddenly small in the vast kitchen.
I sigh, setting the tablet down. “Look, I know this is a lot. But these measures aren’t arbitrary, Ava. They’re essential.”
She just stares at the floor.
“How about a tour?” I suggest, hoping to defuse the tension. “Might help you get your bearings.”
She looks up, conflict clear in her expression. Finally, she nods. “Fine. Show me around the fortress.”
I lead her through the penthouse, starting with the main living areas she’s already begun to claim with her belongings. The space spans the entire top floor of the building, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city.
“This is the main living room, obviously,” I say, gesturing to the open-concept space. “Kitchen, dining area. The east wing has my home office and library.”
“What’s through there?” she asks, pointing to a corridor. She suddenly blushes, apparently recognizing my main bedroom.
“Bedrooms. Yours is the second door on the right. Master suite is at the end. There’s a gym and spa area through the other door.” I pause, watching her take it all in. “Any questions so far?”
“Yeah.” She turns to me, eyes wide. “How the fuck does anyone live like this? It’s like a rec center and museum rolled into one.”
I can’t help but laugh at her bluntness. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t think I will,” she says, but she’s smiling now too. “It’s beautiful, but so... I don’t know. Sterile.”
“Well, you’re already fixing that.” I nod toward the living room, where her colorful belongings have begun to transform the space. “I’ve never had quite so much color. ”
“Is that a complaint?” she challenges.
“An observation.” I meet her gaze. “Change can be interesting.”
Something shifts in the air between us. A tension that has nothing to do with security protocols or smart home systems.
My phone buzzes, breaking the moment. I check the message. “Food’s on its way up.”
“That was fast.”
“I told you. Billionaire perks.” I move toward the elevator. “There are some things about this arrangement you might actually enjoy.”
As I retrieve our midnight feast from the security desk, I find myself oddly energized despite the late hour and long day. The penthouse feels so different now. Warmer somehow, less like the pristine showpiece it’s always been and more like something alive.
It’s disconcerting. I’ve built my life around order and control, and Ava Redwood represents neither. Her boxes, her paintings, her questions. All of it disrupts the careful balance I’ve maintained.
For the next six months, my space is no longer entirely my own. My routine will bend to accommodate another person’s existence. It’s an invasion of sorts, one I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to for business purposes.
So why don’t I mind as much as I should?
I push the thought away as I return with the food. This arrangement is temporary. A means to an end. Nothing more.
No matter how intriguing I might find my new wife.