19. Ava
19
Ava
T he elevator dings and my stomach immediately ties itself into a pretzel. Lucy. She’s early, of course, because punctuality is her superpower while mine is apparently marrying billionaires on short notice.
Just act normal. You’ve only committed mild fraud that could potentially land you in federal prison. No biggie.
“Honey, I’m home!” Lucy’s voice rings through the penthouse as she struts in like she owns the place. Which, considering her family’s real estate empire, isn’t that far-fetched. “Holy shit, Ava. This place makes my parents’ condo look like student housing.”
I force a laugh that sounds more like a strangled hiccup. “It’s a bit much, right?”
Lucy drops her designer handbag on the marble counter and spins around, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the custom furniture, the casual Rothko hanging in the living room like it’s a poster from Target.
“A bit much? That’s like saying the ocean is a bit wet.” She pulls me into a hug, the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume momentarily calming my nerves. “So where’s the mysterious husband? I need to properly interrogate the man who swept my best friend off her feet in record time.”
“Working. Always working.” The truth slips out before I can filter it. “But he should be joining us soon,” I add quickly.
Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise already? It’s been what, three weeks?”
“Two and a half,” I correct automatically. “And no, it’s fine. He’s just busy.”
Busy maintaining the fiction that is our marriage while trying to save his company from corporate raiders. The usual newlywed stuff.
“Well, use this time to give me the grand tour before he gets here.” Lucy links her arm through mine. “I want to see every inch of this palace, especially your studio space.”
I lead her through the penthouse, pointing out features I’m still getting used to myself. The smart home system that still confuses me, the kitchen with appliances I’m afraid to touch, the guest rooms that could comfortably house a family of four.
“And this is my workspace,” I say, showing her the small room I’ve converted into a mini studio. It’s nothing compared to my Brooklyn warehouse space, but it’s becoming mine, with canvases stacked against the walls and the smell of oils and turpentine hanging in the air.
Originally I’d set up shop in the corner of the living room, but I’d felt a little exposed there. I’d catch Gideon watching me paint at the most random times. Nothing ruins brush control like knowing a billionaire is analyzing your every stroke. Probably mentally calculating the ROI of my “hobby.” Either way, I decided it would be best if I moved my mini studio to one of the rooms.
Lucy examines an in-progress painting, her head tilted. “This is new. Your work feels different.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. “Just experimenting.”
She studies me instead of the canvas. “It feels more emotionally honest. Less controlled.”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t reveal too much, I hear the distinctive sound of Gideon’s footsteps approaching. My pulse immediately quickens.
Why does my body always react like this? It’s like my heart and my brain are operating on completely different frequencies.
“Lucy,” Gideon says, entering the room with that effortless authority that seems to shrink any space he occupies. “Good to see you again.” He’s wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than all the art supplies I own, his dark hair perfectly styled.
Lucy rises from examining my canvas, smoothing her designer skirt. “Gideon. Still keeping my best friend in the lap of luxury, I see.”
There’s something in her tone, a subtle edge that wasn’t there at the wedding. Three weeks of reflection have clearly given Lucy time to develop some opinions about our whirlwind marriage.
Great. The honeymoon phase of Lucy approving my questionable life choices has officially ended.
It doesn’t help that we’ve shared little more than a few text messages the past few weeks. Nothing says “I value our decade-long friendship” like responding to her detailed life updates with the occasional “busy, talk soon!” and radio silence. Best Friend of the Year Award? Not even in the running. I’m practically a stranger with an inexplicable new zip code and husband to match.
“We try to keep things comfortable,” Gideon responds with diplomatic precision. His hand finds the small of my back as he joins us, and I hate how my body instantly registers the warmth of his palm through my thin t-shirt.
“Speaking of comfortable,” Lucy says, crossing her arms, “I have about a thousand questions about this marriage of yours.”
I feel my face heating up. Here we go. The Lucy Inquisition begins.
Gideon’s mouth curves into that half-smile that makes my stomach flutter embarrassingly. “I’m sure you do. Shall we move this to the living room? I’ve asked Marianne to prepare lunch.”
Marianne. Right. The personal chef is another surreal aspect of this new life I’m still adjusting to. A life where meals appear without being ordered and security guards follow me to buy coffee.
We migrate to the living room just as Marianne emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of what appears to be some kind of gourmet flatbread situation that smells divine enough to make my stomach audibly protest its emptiness.
“Your antipasto flatbreads, Mr. King,” she announces with her subtle French accent. “And the lobster risotto will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
Lobster risotto. For lunch. On a Tuesday.
“It looks amazing, Marianne,” I say, my voice pitched slightly higher than normal. “Thank you.”
She sets down elegant plates and napkins with practiced efficiency before disappearing back to the kitchen, though the open floor plan means she’s still within earshot. Perfect. An audience for the Lucy Inquisition.
Gideon sits beside me on the sofa, his arm casually draped behind my shoulders in a practiced display of affection. The weight of it, the warmth radiating from his body, feels simultaneously comforting and dangerous. I reach for a flatbread to give my nervous hands something to do.
“So,” Lucy begins, perching on the edge of the armchair across from us, barely glancing at the food, “at the wedding I was too busy playing supportive best friend to ask the hard questions. But now I want details. This whole gallery-meeting-to-marriage timeline feels suspiciously compressed.”
I nearly choke on my flatbread. From the kitchen, I hear the rhythmic sound of Marianne’s knife against a cutting board, slicing through what I hope isn’t my chances of maintaining this charade.
“It’s not that complicated,” I say, trying to sound normal while mentally screaming at Lucy to lower her voice. “We met at the gallery show—”
“Where she mistook me for staff,” Gideon interjects smoothly, reaching for his own flatbread with casual confidence. “It was refreshing to be seen as a normal person rather than Gideon King.”
Lucy’s eyes narrow slightly as she finally picks up a piece of flatbread. “And then you came back later pretending to be someone else? That part still sounds fishy to me.”
I hear the water running in the kitchen sink, Marianne humming softly to herself. Is she actually humming or is that her way of politely signaling she’s not listening? My neck feels hot enough to cook the lobster for the risotto.
“Not pretending,” Gideon corrects, his thumb absently stroking my shoulder in a way that sends inconvenient tingles down my spine. “John is my middle name. I just... omitted certain details.”
Like the fact that you’re worth billions and planned to never see me again after our night together. Minor details, really.
Marianne emerges again, this time with a pitcher of something that looks fancy enough to have its own Instagram account. “Cucumber mint water,” she announces, filling our glasses before returning to her risotto.
“How convenient,” Lucy says after Marianne retreats, her voice dropping to a more conspiratorial level. She leans forward slightly. “So you sweep in with your John-not-Gideon act, charm my best friend who’s normally suspicious of any man who breathes in her direction, and then somehow convince her to marry you before the week is out? I need the secret ingredient here, because nothing about this adds up.”
The flatbread turns to sawdust in my mouth. I reach for the cucumber water, nearly knocking it over in my haste.
“When you know, you know,” Gideon says with such conviction that for a split second, I almost believe him myself.
I feel Lucy’s eyes on me, searching for something. Confirmation, perhaps, or the tell-tale signs of the lie I’m living. From the kitchen comes the gentle clatter of Marianne stirring the risotto, a domestic soundtrack to the most surreal conversation of my life.
If she buys this, I deserve an Oscar. If she doesn’t, I deserve whatever interrogation technique she’s about to unleash.
“Sometimes the right person changes everything,” Gideon adds, his tone softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Ava challenges me. She sees the world differently than anyone I’ve ever met. ”
I blink in surprise. This doesn’t sound rehearsed.
“I need to take this call,” Gideon suddenly announces as his phone buzzes. “Business emergency. Lucy, please make yourself at home.” He squeezes my shoulder briefly before rising. “We’ll finish lunch when I return.”
The moment he leaves, Lucy stands up and shuts the door to the kitchen. Then she turns on me.
“Okay, what the actual fuck, Ava? You hate whirlwind romances. You once lectured me for three hours about how my cousin’s six-month engagement was ‘recklessly premature.’”
I laugh nervously, running a hand through my hair. “People change?”
“Not that much.” Lucy leans forward. “And you’re doing that thing with your face.”
“What thing?” I ask, though I know exactly what she means.
“That thing where you try to act casual but your entire face turns the color of a fire hydrant.” She points accusingly. “You’re keeping something from me.”
Deep breath. Stick to the story. There are approximately fifty million reasons why this charade needs to work, and most of them have dollar signs attached.
“I’m not keeping anything from you,” I lie, the words tasting sour. “It happened fast, yes. It’s overwhelming, yes. But it’s real.”
Lucy studies me for a long moment. “Your eyes followed him the entire time he was in the room. You practically vibrate when he’s near you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I scoff, though my heart is hammering.
“Is it? Because I know that look, Ava. I’ve just never seen it on you before.”
“What look?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Like he’s the sun and you’re a plant that’s been kept in the dark.”
I snort. “That’s poetic and completely overblown.”
“Is it though? Tell me when was the last time you had sex with him.”
I swallow. “Um, every day.”
She laughs. Just laughs. “You’re such a bad liar. You’re not fucking him, yet it’s so obvious that you want to.” She pauses, considering for a moment. “And Mr. Billionaire looks at you the same way.”
This stops me short. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does.” Lucy leans back, crossing her arms. “So either you’re both spectacular actors, or there’s something very strange going on here.”
The truth hovers dangerously close to the surface, threatening to spill out. I want to tell her everything. The contract, the business arrangement, the no-emotions clause that I’m increasingly worried I might be violating simply by existing in Gideon’s orbit.
Instead, I deflect. “It’s complicated.”
“Relationships usually are.” Lucy’s expression softens. “But you can trust me, you know that, right? Whatever’s really going on, I’m on your side.”
Guilt washes over me. Lucy has been my confidante through everything. My father’s abandonment, my stepfather’s betrayal, the disastrous relationships that followed. Lying to her feels like betraying the one constant support in my life.
“I know,” I say quietly. “And I appreciate you looking out for me. But I’m figuring this out as I go.”
At least that part isn’t a lie.
Lucy’s phone chimes and she checks it with a sigh. “Dad needs me for some emergency at the office. Apparently, the Westside development is having permit issues.”
“You’re not staying for the risotto?” I ask, my tone oddly emotionless.
She shakes her head and stands, gathering her things. “This conversation isn’t over. I still need to properly vet your husband, preferably with alcohol involved.”
I walk her to the elevator, grateful for the reprieve yet strangely hollow from maintaining the deception.
“Just promise me one thing,” Lucy says as the elevator doors slide open. “Be careful with your heart. Whatever this is—whirlwind romance or something else—just make sure you’re protecting yourself.”
“I always do,” I assure her, another half-truth that sits heavily in my chest.
After she leaves, I wander to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline that still doesn’t feel like my view, or my life.
What’s happening to me? This was supposed to be a simple business arrangement. Financial security in exchange for a temporary inconvenience.
But there’s nothing simple about the way my pulse races when Gideon enters the room. Nothing businesslike about how often I replay our night together, the desk episode, the surprising gentleness in his voice when he explains financial concepts I’d never considered.
It’s just Stockholm syndrome, I tell myself firmly. Or simple gratitude. Or maybe just good old-fashioned lust for an objectively attractive man who technically happens to be my husband.
Whatever it is, it can’t be real feelings. Those aren’t allowed. They’re explicitly forbidden in a contract I willingly signed. Hell, I wanted that in the contract.
I hear Gideon’s footsteps returning and quickly compose myself, pushing down the confusion, the want, the fear that I’m already failing at the one thing I was determined to maintain in this arrangement: my emotional independence.
Get it together, Ava. Don’t fall for the script of your own fake marriage. This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a business transaction with an expiration date.
But as Gideon reappears in the doorway, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, I wonder if perhaps I’ve miscalculated just how dangerous this arrangement might be.
And I’m not talking about my freedom here, or even my art.
But my heart.