21. Ava
21
Ava
I ’m sitting in Elliott Hayes’ sleek downtown office, perched on the edge of a leather sofa. Hayes’ assistant closed all the blinds when we arrived, transforming the wall of windows into a fortress of beige fabric. “Standard procedure for high-profile clients,” he explained with practiced discretion. “You never know who might be watching from neighboring buildings.” The irony isn’t lost on me. Even here, in what should be a private consultation, we’re still paranoid about Blackwell’s spies.
Elliott Hayes sits across from me, his perfectly tailored suit and impossibly white teeth giving him the appearance of someone who stepped out of a magazine ad for “How to Look Intimidatingly Perfect.” Gideon stands near the closed blinds, his broad shoulders tense as he absently traces a pattern on the beige fabric with one finger. Probably contemplating which company to buy next.
This is fine. Totally normal Tuesday. Just learning how to pretend I’m madly in love with my fake billionaire husband from a man who charges more per hour than I used to make in a month.
“Mrs. King,” Elliott says, and I still jolt slightly at the name. “Today’s training is essential for maintaining the narrative of your relationship.”
“I prefer Ava,” I mumble.
Elliott smiles patiently. “Of course, Ava. Let’s begin with the basics. The media and Blackwell’s people will be looking for any hint that your marriage isn’t genuine. Your body language, your responses to questions, even your facial expressions will be scrutinized.”
“No pressure,” I say, feeling heat creep up my neck.
“First, let’s practice some common questions.” Elliott flips open a sleek leather notebook. “How did you and Gideon meet?”
I recite our rehearsed story about the gallery mistaken identity, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “He came back later pretending to be someone named John so he could talk to me without his reputation getting in the way.”
“Good content, but your delivery needs work,” Elliott says. “You’re looking down, playing with your clothing. It makes the listener think you’re not being truthful. Like you’re up to something.”
Maybe because I am up to something?
“Try again,” he instructs. “This time, make eye contact with me. Smile naturally when you mention how you felt. Touch your heart slightly when you describe the connection.”
Gideon turns from the window, his gray eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I clear my throat and try again, forcing myself to maintain eye contact with Elliott, adding a smile that feels plastic on my face. “We met at my art show. I actually mistook him for gallery staff.”
“And how did that make you feel when you discovered his true identity?” Elliott prompts.
“Mortified,” I say honestly. “But also... intrigued.”
“Better,” Elliott nods. “Now let’s try something more personal. What attracted you to Gideon?”
The question catches me off guard. We’ve rehearsed our meeting story, but not this.
“Um...” My mind races. “His confidence.” The words come more easily than expected. “The way he sees straight through pretense. How he notices details others miss.” My voice grows steadier. “And he surprised me. He’s not just the ruthless businessman everyone thinks he is.”
Gideon shifts his weight, and I catch a flicker of something in his expression before it disappears behind his usual mask.
“Excellent,” Elliott says. “That felt authentic.”
Because it was . Shit.
“Now,” Elliott continues, “public displays of affection. Manhattan society expects a certain level of propriety, but also clear signs of connection. We need to calibrate your comfort level.”
For the next hour, Elliott walks us through appropriate touches. Hand holding, the light brush of fingers against a back, the way Gideon should guide me through a room with his hand at my waist. Each demonstration brings him closer, his cologne filling my senses. Citrus and amber and all the darker notes.
“The eyes are crucial,” Elliott explains. “They call them the windows to the soul for a reason. Nothing reveals insincerity faster.”
He instructs Gideon to sit beside me on the sofa. “Now, look at each other as if you’re sharing a private moment in the middle of a crowded event. Don’t overthink it. This isn’t about performance. It’s about connection.”
Easy for you to say. Your livelihood doesn’t depend on convincing people you’re in love with a man who explicitly forbids actual feelings.
Gideon turns toward me, his knees nearly touching mine. Our eyes meet, and something catches in my throat. Yesterday’s kiss fills my mind. The unexpected warmth of his lips, the slight pressure of his hands cupping my face, the way my body responded without consulting my brain first.
Great timing. Definitely a moment that should be filed under “Things To Definitely Not Think About During Professional Training Sessions.”
But it’s like trying not to think about pink elephants. Once the thought appears, it’s all I can see. The heat rises in my cheeks as I remember how I’d clutched his shirt, how what started as performance spiraled into something that felt dangerously real. My lobster blush is making a grand appearance. I can feel it. Any second now Hayes is going to offer me a bowl of melted butter and a bib.
Gideon’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he can read the direction of my thoughts. There’s something almost predatory in the way he watches me now. Like he’s remembering, too. My heart hammers against my ribs so loudly I’m certain everyone in the room can hear it. I bite my lower lip without thinking, then immediately release it when his gaze drops to my mouth.
“That’s...” Elliott clears his throat. “That’s exactly what we’re looking for.”
I break eye contact first, feeling my cheeks flame even further, if that’s possible. The cushion shifts as Gideon stands abruptly.
“We should take a break,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.
“Certainly,” Elliott agrees. “You’re both doing remarkably well. Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes to discuss specific upcoming events.”
Gideon strides from the room without looking back. I exhale slowly, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.
“May I use your restroom?” I ask Elliott, needing a minute myself.
He points me down the hallway, and I escape gratefully, splashing cold water on my burning face once I’m safely behind the closed door.
Get it together, Ava. This is exactly what you’re being paid for. Acting. Performance. Nothing real.
But the flutter in my stomach when Gideon looked at me felt real enough.
I dry my hands and step into the hallway, pausing when I hear Gideon’s voice from a small conference room across the hall, door slightly ajar.
“It’s going fine, Jonas,” he says, his tone all business again. “Hayes thinks we’ll be convincing enough.”
A pause as Jonas speaks on the other end.
“No, there’s no concern about that,” Gideon continues. “We both understand this is purely business. The terms of our agreement are perfectly clear. No emotional involvement.”
Another pause.
“She’s professional about it. That’s why I chose her in the first place. Once this Blackwell situation is resolved, we proceed as planned.”
My chest tightens. Of course that’s what he thinks. It’s what I should think, too.
I slip away before he can discover me eavesdropping, returning to the office where Elliott is reviewing notes.
“Ready to continue?” he asks brightly.
“Absolutely,” I respond with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Let’s make sure this performance is flawless.”
Because that’s all it is. A performance. And I need to remember that before I do something stupid like develop real feelings for a man who sees me as nothing more than a business solution with an expiration date.
When Gideon returns, his face is unreadable again, all traces of our earlier connection carefully erased. He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and I feel the heat of him even through the fabric of my blouse.
“Now,” Elliott says, “let’s discuss how you’ll handle the Bronson charity gala this weekend. All eyes will be on Manhattan’s newest power couple.”
Power couple. What a joke.
But as Gideon’s hand closes over mine in a gesture that looks loving to anyone watching but feels like a business handshake to me, I remind myself that I signed up for this. Twelve more months of pretending, and then I’ll have everything I’ve worked for. My own gallery, artistic freedom, financial security.
Everything except someone who actually loves me. But that was never part of the deal anyway.
“We’re ready,” Gideon tells Elliott, his voice confident. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand, an improvised gesture that sends unwanted shivers up my arm .
I force myself to lean slightly into his side, playing my part perfectly. Because that’s what artists do, right? We create illusions so convincing that sometimes, if we’re not careful, we start believing them ourselves.