18. Gideon
18
Gideon
I stare at the quarterly reports spread across the glass desk of my home office, but my mind keeps circling back to the same problem: Ava.
Not helping that this is the same desk where I fucked her senseless the morning of our one night stand. The memory of her gasps, her body yielding beneath my hands, it’s distracting as hell. It’s why I try not to work from home very much anymore.
I force the images from my mind, adjusting uncomfortably in my chair. Business. Focus on business.
Okay. So. If she’s going to convincingly play her role as trustee, she needs to understand more than just the basics of what she’s signing. The board meeting showed me that. Her poise was impressive, but her knowledge has gaps that could be exploited. Someone like Burt Lee would pounce on any sign of weakness.
Fuck. I hate being unprepared.
I send a quick text to Jonas, postponing our morning meeting, then head to the kitchen where Ava is having breakfast. She’s hunched over her sketchbook, hair piled messily on top of her head, a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. She doesn’t notice me until I clear my throat.
“We need to talk,” I say.
She looks up, wariness immediately crossing her face. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not.” I lean against the counter. “But you need a crash course in corporate finance. Your role as trustee requires more than just showing up and looking pretty.”
“Looking pretty wasn’t part of our agreement,” she says dryly. “But please, continue mansplaining my job to me.”
I ignore the jab. “Nine o’clock. My home office. Wear whatever you want, but bring something to take notes.”
She rolls her eyes but nods. “Yes, professor. Will there be a quiz?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I say, turning to leave. I pause at the doorway. “And wash that charcoal off your face.”
Her hand flies to her cheek, and I allow myself a small smile as I walk away.
At exactly nine, Ava appears in my home office doorway. She’s wearing paint-splattered jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair now contained in a messy bun. She’s cleaned the charcoal from her face. Small victories.
“Welcome to Finance 101,” I say, gesturing to the chair I’ve positioned beside mine. Not across the desk. That creates too much distance for effective teaching. I want her beside me, where I can see what she’s writing, guide her through the materials.
“Do I get a syllabus?” She drops into the chair, placing a small notebook and pen on the glass desk. Her eyes linger on it and her cheeks redden, as if she’s remembering the fantastic pussy-licking I gave her there.
Focus.
“This isn’t a joke, Ava. If you’re going to be the trustee of a multi-billion dollar investment entity, you need to understand what you’re overseeing.”
Her eyes snap from the desk to mine, and something hardens in her expression. “I’m aware of the stakes, Gideon. I may not have an MBA, but I’m not an idiot.”
“I never said you were.” I slide a folder toward her. “This is a simplified overview of corporate finance structures. I’ve highlighted the sections most relevant to the trust.”
For the next hour, I walk her through basic financial concepts. Equity versus debt financing, capital structures, risk assessment. I’ve prepared myself for glazed eyes and constant questions, but what I get instead is focused attention and surprisingly insightful queries.
“So essentially,” she says after I explain leveraged positions, “you’re using other people’s money to amplify your potential gains, but also your potential losses.”
“Correct.” I nod, slightly surprised by her quick grasp of the concept.
“Like painting with a palette knife instead of a brush,” she muses. “Higher risk, less control, but potentially more striking results.”
I pause, considering the analogy. “That’s actually quite accurate.”
She shrugs. “I understand risk. Every painting is a risk.”
“Painting and finance aren’t exactly comparable,” I say.
“Aren’t they? Both require understanding your medium, taking calculated risks, and knowing when to cut your losses.” She flips through the pages I’ve given her. “This section on diversification. It’s just like my use of different techniques in a single piece. Too much consistency creates something flat and uninteresting. The right balance of diverse elements creates something dynamic.”
I study her face as she continues making connections between financial concepts and artistic principles. Her brown eyes light up when she grasps a new idea, her hands moving animatedly as she explains her understanding. It’s utterly captivating.
“What about valuation methods?” I ask, pushing her a bit further. “How would you determine what a company is worth?”
She taps her pen against her lips in thought. “Well, according to this—” she gestures to the papers, “—there are multiple approaches. Discounted cash flow models projecting future value, comparable company analysis, precedent transactions.” She pauses. “But a company’s true value isn’t just numbers on a balance sheet. Like art, the value is partly intrinsic, partly perception.”
“Go on,” I say, genuinely curious where she’s taking this.
“A Rothko is technically just paper and paint. You know, materials worth maybe a hundred dollars. But it sells for millions because of what it evokes, its history, its scarcity, the story behind it.” She leans forward, warming to her subject. “Companies are the same, aren’t they? Ford isn’t valued based solely on how many cars it sells. It’s about the narrative, the potential, the perception of innovation. Value is subjective, fluid.”
I stare at her, momentarily speechless. Most MBA students take months to grasp what she’s intuited in an hour.
“That’s... exactly right,” I finally say, flabbergasted, yet strangely proud of her. “Most analysts fail to account for intangible factors that drive valuation. They get lost in the numbers.”
Her face breaks into a smile. Not the guarded, sarcastic one I usually see, but something genuine and bright. “See? I told you I’m not an idiot.”
“I never thought you were,” I say quietly. And I mean it.
We move on to more complex topics. Tax implications of the trust structure, fiduciary responsibilities, regulatory compliance. With each new concept, she makes connections to her own world, translating financial jargon into artistic metaphors that somehow make perfect sense.
“The trust is like a frame,” she says, sketching quickly in her notebook. “It contains and protects the artwork—your assets—while presenting them in a specific context that enhances their value and stability.”
I find myself leaning closer as she draws, watching her slender fingers move across the page with confidence. She smells like coffee and paint thinner, an oddly appealing combination. When she turns to explain her diagram, our faces are inches apart, and something shifts in the air between us.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything else falls away. I notice things I shouldn’t. The flecks of gold in her brown irises, the small scar near her left eyebrow, the fullness of her bottom lip as she presses it between her teeth.
Shit. This is exactly what I’ve been avoiding.
I abruptly stand, nearly knocking over my coffee. “I think that’s enough for today.”
She blinks, confusion crossing her face. Her cheeks are a rosy red. “But we haven’t covered the SEC reporting requirements you mentioned.”
“Another time.” I move behind my desk, creating distance. “I have a call with Tokyo in twenty minutes. I need to prepare.”
It’s a lie, and from her expression, she knows it. But she doesn’t challenge me, just slowly gathers her notes.
“Well thanks for the lesson, I guess.” She stands, hugging the folder to her chest. “Should we schedule another session?”
“I’ll let you know.” My voice comes out colder than intended.
She stiffens slightly. “Right. Busy schedule, important calls, I get it.”
I should say something. Acknowledge her aptitude, praise her quick learning. Instead, I reach for my phone, pretending to check messages. “Close the door on your way out.”
After she leaves, I sit heavily in my chair, running a hand through my hair. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I arranged this tutorial to protect my business interests, not to discover that my fake wife has a mind as compelling as her body. And that my own body still responds to hers like some fucking teenager with no self-control. Hard to maintain professional distance when all I can think about is ravaging her again on my office desk.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jonas about the postponed meeting, and I’m grateful for the distraction. Work. That’s what matters. What’s always mattered. Not brown eyes flecked with gold, or the way her face lights up when she grasps a new concept, or how her artistic perspective cuts through financial complexity with unexpected clarity.
I open my laptop and force myself to focus on the Tokyo proposal, pushing thoughts of Ava firmly aside. This marriage is a business arrangement with a clear purpose and definite endpoint. Nothing more.