15. Ava
15
Ava
I sit perched on the edge of the supple leather chair in Gideon’s home office, its luxurious softness a reminder of how surreal this all is. How surreal I am in a world I don’t quite belong in. My fingers grip the armrests lightly, anticipation fluttering nervously in my chest at the thought of what’s about to happen.
“The transfer will clear immediately,” Gideon says, his fingers tapping efficiently on his keyboard. His office is all glass, steel, and commanding views of Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like it’s just another asset in his portfolio. To him, it probably is.
I nod, trying to look casual while my heart hammers against my ribs. “Great.”
“You seem nervous,” he observes without looking up.
“Do I?” I can’t imagine why. I fidget with the sleeve of my paint-stained sweater. I’d considered dressing up for this meeting but decided against it. This transaction is awkward enough without me pretending to be someone I’m not.
His computer pings softly. He turns the screen so I can see it. “It’s done.”
Just like that. Three words and my life is changed. The numbers on the screen have more zeros than I’m comfortable with. My phone buzzes in my pocket with the bank notification, but I don’t need to check it. The evidence is right there on his monitor, black and white and utterly surreal.
Holy. Shit.
That’s more money than I’ve ever had in my entire life.
And all it cost was my independence. Well, and a fake marriage to New York’s most eligible emotionally unavailable billionaire. Bargain.
I should feel relieved, even exhilarated, and yet beneath the excitement is a quiet ache of uncertainty, a tiny whisper warning me of the dangerous game my heart is already beginning to play.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, the words feeling wholly inadequate.
“No need for thanks. It’s business.” Gideon leans back in his chair, studying me. “What will you do with it?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The money. What’s your plan?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because I don’t have an answer, but because I didn’t expect him to care. “Invest in some studio space, obviously. And pay off my student loans.”
He nods. “Both solid choices. But you should consider your long-term security. The market’s volatile right now, but there are several conservative investment vehicles that would— ”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharper than I intended.
Gideon pauses, one eyebrow raised.
My face heats up, but I press on. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need financial advice.”
“You’re an art student, Ava.” His tone is maddeningly reasonable. “Financial management isn’t typically covered in painting courses.”
My anger flares. The heat in my cheeks intensifies. I can feel the flush spreading down my neck.
Deep breaths. Don’t let him see how much this bothers you.
“I’ve managed my own finances since I was eighteen,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Not all of us had trust funds and boardrooms to fall back on.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Let me finish.” My hands are shaking slightly, but I clasp them together to hide it. “You may find this shocking, but people without billions can still understand money. I’ve been stretching pennies and juggling expenses while fighting my way through art school for years. I know exactly what I’m doing with this settlement.”
Gideon’s expression shifts from surprise to something unreadable. “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”
“Really? Because it sounded a lot like ‘Poor little artist, let me explain how money works.’” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
“That wasn’t my intention.” There’s a hint of steel in his voice now. “I was offering assistance.”
“I didn’t ask for it.” I stand up, needing to move. The office suddenly feels too small, too... him . “This is exactly why I insisted on financial autonomy in our agreement. I don’t need your approval for how I spend or invest my settlement.”
“Financial decisions made in haste often lead to regret,” he says, his CEO voice making an appearance. “I’ve seen it happen countless times.”
“To your wealthy friends who blow millions on yachts and failed vanity projects?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “My definition of financial security isn’t the same as yours, Gideon.”
He stands now too, towering over his desk. “Enlighten me, then.”
“Security is freedom to create without compromise. It’s paying off debt that was forced on me by someone who wanted to control my future. It’s building something that’s entirely mine.” My voice cracks slightly. “Not everyone defines security the same way you do.”
The silence between us feels charged, dangerous. I’ve never spoken to him like this before. Not as his fake wife, not as his one-night stand, not even during our contract negotiations.
Gideon’s jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he might argue further, but instead he says, “You’re right.”
The simple admission catches me off guard.
“I overstepped,” he continues. “Your finances are your business.”
I nod, suddenly exhausted by the confrontation. “Thank you.”
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I pull it out, partly to have something to do with my hands, partly because I need to confirm this is all real.
The bank notification glows on my screen. The number makes me dizzy.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, already heading for the door. “I have some financial decisions to make.”
“Ava.” His voice stops me at the threshold. I turn slightly, not quite looking at him. “I’m sorry. ”
An apology? From Gideon King? The world must be ending.
“I know,” I reply, and walk out.
In the hallway, I lean against the wall and take a deep breath. My phone is still clutched in my hand, the notification a digital promise of everything I’ve worked for. The smell of linseed oil clings faintly to my clothes. It’s a subtle reminder of who I really am despite the bizarre circumstances.
So this is what financial independence feels like. Terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
I stare at the number again. This is just the first installment. Twenty percent of what I’ll eventually receive. It’s enough to change everything while changing nothing. I’m still me. Still Ava Redwood, soon-to-be graduate, artist, and fake wife.
But now I’m Ava Redwood with options. Ava Redwood who doesn’t have to compromise her art for rent money. Ava Redwood who can finally prove her stepfather wrong.
I push off from the wall, feeling lighter than I have in years. The weight of financial insecurity begins to lift from my shoulders.
For the first time since signing that marriage contract, I don’t regret a thing.