13. Ava
13
Ava
I can feel people staring. Hundreds of eyes tracking my every move like I’m some rare zoo animal.
Smile. Don’t trip. Look like you belong. You’re supposed to be a billionaire’s wife for god’s sake.
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glitters around me. And I mean that literally. Those crystal chandeliers are throwing light across the crowd of Manhattan’s wealthiest and most powerful. Every woman seems to be dripping in diamonds, their gowns probably worth more than my entire student loan debt. Which, to be fair, is substantial.
Gideon’s hand rests at the small of my back, steady and warm through the thin fabric of my gown. It’s a midnight blue number that I secretly love but pretended to be indifferent about when his stylist brought it over. His touch feels both reassuring and utterly foreign. My husband’s touch.
God, this is weird.
“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs close to my ear, his breath tickling my neck. “Just follow my lead. ”
I force a tight smile. “Easy for you to say. This is your natural habitat. I feel like I’m wearing a costume.”
“You look beautiful,” he says simply, and something flutters in my chest that I immediately squash.
Don’t you dare, Ava. This is a business arrangement. The man has literally paid you not to fall for him.
“Mrs. King!” A woman with silver hair coiffed into an architectural marvel approaches us. “What a delightful surprise! Gideon has been our most eligible bachelor for so long, we’d almost given up hope.”
I extend my hand, trying to mimic the graceful gestures of the women around me. “Thank you for including me tonight. It’s all a bit overwhelming.”
“Oh, newlyweds are always so refreshing,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. “I’m Judith Cavendish, the event chair. We’re so pleased you could attend Gideon’s table tonight.”
His table? Like, he owns it?
The confusion must show on my face because Gideon smoothly interjects, “I’m a major sponsor of the foundation. They always reserve a table.”
“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath.
He shoots me a look that’s half warning, half amusement.
We’re guided to our seats at the center of the room, because naturally Gideon King wouldn’t be seated anywhere less prominent. Michael, one of my assigned security guards, positions himself at a discreet distance behind us. Diana, the other half of my detail, is somewhere in the crowd, probably intimidating socialites with her don’t-fuck-with-me vibe.
I’m still getting used to having shadows. Yesterday, Diana followed me to the art supply store and scanned every aisle before letting me browse. It was ridiculous and oddly comforting at the same time.
Our table is already half-full with people whose names I immediately forget upon introduction. They all look at me with the same mix of curiosity and assessment, as if trying to solve the puzzle of my existence. What could Gideon King possibly see in this unknown art student?
If they only knew this whole marriage is a corporate shield. Talk about anticlimactic.
My stomach growls loudly just as the servers arrive with our first course. I realize I haven’t eaten since a hurried protein bar at noon, too nervous about tonight to think about food. But now that I’m here, food is definitely at the top of my mind. In fact, the plate in front of me looks incredible: some kind of delicate sea scallop thing with colorful foams and microgreens artfully arranged like a miniature abstract painting. Of course it’s about three bites total.
Rich people and their microscopic portions. What is this, food for ants? I’m going to have to order pizza when we get home.
I grab my fork, poking it into one of the scallops, when I notice something odd. No one else is eating. They’re all engaged in conversation, completely ignoring the beautiful food in front of them. I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.
Shit, am I not supposed to eat yet? Is this just decoration? A garnish? Rich people are so weird.
My face starts heating up. I can feel it spread slowly from my cheeks down to my neck.
Spontaneous lobster condition, check! Why don’t I just get a flashing Vegas sign that says ‘I don’t belong here’? God this sucks.
Just as I’m contemplating putting my fork down and pretending I was just admiring the artistry of the dish, Gideon casually picks up his own utensils and begins eating. Almost immediately, others at the table follow suit.
“Always wait for the host,” he says softly. Then, louder. “Chef Marcel is known for his seafood.”
I take a bite, momentarily distracted from my embarrassment by the incredible flavor. “Oh my god, this scallop is amazing.”
The woman across from me, some baroness or countess or whatever, smiles thinly. Or smugly. I can’t really tell. “Indeed. The foundation always secures the best chefs.”
Conversation flows around me, mostly financial talk and gossip about people I’ve never heard of. I nod and smile at appropriate intervals, concentrating on not making any more mistakes. When the bread basket comes my way, I’m starved enough to gratefully take a roll.
I cut it in half with my knife and proceed to butter the entire piece at once. The baroness-countess-whatever across the table raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and I know immediately I’ve committed another faux pas against high society.
What now? Is there a special way to eat bread when you’re rich?
From the corner of my eye, I see Gideon tear a small piece from his roll, butter it, and eat just that piece before tearing off another. Oh. Great. Even bread has a protocol.
I glance down at my fully buttered half-roll, now a glaring beacon of my lower-class origins.
Well, can’t unbutter it now. Just eat the evidence, Ava.
I take a small bite from the edge, trying to be dainty about it, and mentally prepare to tackle the other half of my roll the “proper” way.
When I get to the other half, I tear off a modest piece, add a conservative dab of butter, and pop it in my mouth with what I hope passes for aristocratic nonchalance.
Who knew bread could be so complicated?
Next they’ll tell me there’s a special way to breathe in high society. Inhale with your left nostril on Tuesdays, the right nostril on Wednesdays.
When a server fills our champagne glasses and the event chair calls for a toast, I’m relieved to have something to do with my hands. I lift my glass with everyone else and take a healthy sip as the chairman finishes his speech.
Only to realize, once again, that I’m the only one actually drinking. Everyone else has merely touched the glass to their lips in some symbolic gesture.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
The heat is back in my cheeks, and I’m pretty sure I now resemble a fire hydrant. Gideon’s hand finds my knee under the table and gives it a reassuring squeeze. The touch does nothing to cool my flaming face, but it does steady me somehow.
“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs again. “These people have spent their entire lives learning these ridiculous social rules.”
“I’m a walking disaster,” I whisper back. “I’d rather give a nude presentation to my entire art class than endure another minute of this.”
He almost chokes on his water, and the flash of genuine amusement in his eyes makes me feel marginally better.
After dinner, we circulate through the crowd. Gideon introduces me to so many people I’ve lost track, but he stays close, his hand never leaving the small of my back for long.
“Mrs. King, what a pleasure,” says a tall woman with sharp features and an accent I can’t quite place. “I’m Lady Montgomery. Your husband has been such a generous supporter of our international literacy program.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Montgomery,” I say, smiling. “Gideon hasn’t told me much about his charitable work yet.”
Her smile tightens almost imperceptibly, and I realize too late I’ve somehow erred again.
Oh god, what now?
Gideon smoothly interjects, “Lady Montgomery just returned from opening a new library in Tanzania, didn’t you? She was telling me earlier about how the local children had prepared a special welcome ceremony.”
As he continues the story, he naturally works in “Lady Montgomery” several times.
Ah. Lady Montgomery. That’s what I missed.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say after a few minutes of conversation that leaves my head spinning with all the social landmines I’m navigating, “I need to find the ladies’ room.”
Gideon nods, though I catch a flash of concern in his eyes. “Diana will accompany you.”
Sure enough, my female security detail materializes at my side as I make my way across the ballroom. She guides me to a hallway that leads to what is undoubtedly the fanciest bathroom I’ve ever seen. All marble and gold fixtures, with an attendant handing out towels.
After splashing cold water on my wrists (not my face—I’d rather die than ruin the makeup that took a small eternity and three YouTube tutorials to get right), I take a deep breath.
You can do this, Ava. It’s just one night. One very long, very uncomfortable night.
When I exit, I nearly collide with a woman in a skin-tight red dress. Her sleek dark hair falls in perfect waves, and her sharp gaze immediately makes me feel like I’ve been found wanting. Her surgically weaponized chest is practically saluting, those fake tits perched like they’re auditioning for a porn reboot of Titanic .
“So you’re the flavor of the month.” She grimaces, looking me up and down with an expression that suggests she’s found something unpleasant on the bottom of her designer shoe. “Gideon always did have eccentric taste.”
“I’m sorry, you are...?” I ask, though I immediately know this must be Vanessa Clarke, the ex-fling mentioned in my extensive briefing documents.
“ Vanessa Clarke ,” she confirms condescendingly. Her smirk is tighter than her botox. “Gideon and I have history. Deep history. The kind that doesn’t just disappear because he’s playing house with his latest toy. That ring your wearing is rightfully mine.”
Diana shifts beside me, and I can tell she’s ready to intervene. But this is my battle to fight.
“That’s funny,” I say, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Because when Gideon gave me this ring, your name never came up. Were you perhaps listed under ‘miscellaneous’?”
Her eyes narrow, and her lips twist in anger. “Mouthy little bitch.” She straightens to her full height, and I sense Diana tensing beside me. “You really think it’s going to last? Gideon King doesn’t do relationships. Tell me, did you trap him somehow? A happy accident, perhaps?”
My face feels hot again, anger mixing with humiliation. “I think this conversation is over.”
“It’ll be over when he gets bored,” she hisses. “And he always gets bored. Ask me how I know.”
I’m frantically trying to formulate a response that won’t result in a society page scandal when a warm hand slides around my waist.
“Vanessa,” Gideon says, his voice glacial despite the polite smile on his face. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
The possessive arm around my waist tightens slightly, and I find myself leaning into him instinctively.
“Just girl talk,” Vanessa says with a brittle laugh. “Catching up on old times.”
“How disappointing then, that there are no old times for you to share with Ava,” Gideon replies smoothly. “What you and I had was brief and ultimately forgettable. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my wife and I have guests to attend to.”
He steers me away, leaving Vanessa seething behind us. When we’re out of earshot, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Thanks for the rescue,” I murmur.
“Rescuing each other is part of the arrangement, isn’t it?” he replies, but his expression is unusually gentle.
For the briefest moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if this were real. If I were actually Gideon King’s actual partner, not just a convenient business solution. The thought makes my heart do something complicated in my chest .
Danger, Ava. Red alert. You’re paid not to have feelings for him.
“Ready to face the lions again?” he asks, nodding toward the crowded ballroom.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Just promise to keep saving me from social suicide.”
“Deal.” The warmth in his voice feels dangerously close to genuine.