22. Gideon
22
Gideon
T he Bronson charity gala buzzes with Manhattan’s elite. I adjust my bow tie, scanning the opulent ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the crowd. Old money mingling with new, power circulating like currency.
Ava stands beside me looking ethereal in a midnight blue gown that makes her skin glow. The dress was a compromise. She insisted on paying for it herself but accepted my stylist’s recommendation. The result is breathtaking. Every eye in the room has noticed.
Unlike our first charity function where she practically vibrated with anxiety, tonight she carries herself with a newfound poise. Her shoulders are relaxed, her smile less forced. She’s learning.
“Ready?” I ask, offering my arm as Elliott trained us.
She nods, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “As I’ll ever be.”
We’ve been practicing for this. The subtle touches. The loving glances. The carefully rehearsed story of our whirlwind romance. But despite all the practice, there’s an authenticity to how her hand rests in the crook of my elbow that I wasn’t expecting.
“Mr. King! Wonderful to see you.” Bernard Bronson approaches, his wife trailing beside him. “And this must be the new Mrs. King we’ve heard so much about.”
“Ava, this is Bernard Bronson and his wife Margaret. Bernard, Margaret, my wife, Ava.”
I watch her shake their hands with genuine warmth. She’s definitely getting better at this. Gone is the deer-in-headlights look from her first society event. She’s learned to mirror their social rhythms without losing herself.
“We were surprised to hear about your sudden marriage,” Margaret says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Such a whirlwind.”
“When you know, you know,” I reply smoothly, pulling Ava closer. “Some opportunities are too precious to waste time on.”
“How business-like of you,” Margaret laughs. “Approaching marriage like an acquisition.”
I feel Ava stiffen beside me.
“Actually,” I say, voice steady, “it was more like discovering a masterpiece no one else recognized. Sometimes the most valuable things aren’t immediately obvious to everyone.”
Bernard laughs appreciatively while Margaret’s smile tightens. Ava squeezes my elbow.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I say, guiding Ava toward the bar. “I promised my wife a drink before dinner.”
Once we’re out of earshot, I lean down. “How are you feeling?”
“A lot better than last time,” she replies. “I’m not spending every second terrified I’ll use the wrong fork or call someone by the wrong title. The training session with Elliot definitely helped.”
“Two champagnes,” I tell the bartender. then turn back to Ava.
She raises an eyebrow. “Champagne? You sure you trust me with that? Considering me and champagne have a... history.”
I smile. “My suit is overdue for a dry-cleaning anyway.”
She laughs, then runs her gaze across the crowd.
“What do you see when you look around the room?” I ask her. “From an artist’s perspective?”
“What do I see?” She pauses. “Half these people are wearing masks so obvious I could sketch them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
She nods, accepting her champagne glass from the bartender. “The well-dressed man by the pillar? His would be chrome, reflective but cold, with a permanent smile etched into the metal that never changes no matter who he’s talking to. The society matron in emerald there? She has a porcelain mask with a painted-on expression, cracking slightly at the edges where the real person is trying to break through. That board director from your company on the far side of the bar? His is a two-faced carnival mask, presentable and attentive on the side he shows most people, but when he turns to check his phone, the profile reveals someone calculating and sharp. And the power couple by the entrance? Their masks are identical gold-leaf creations, beautiful but so fragile they’d shatter if anyone touched them directly.” She takes a sip of champagne. “The masks people create to navigate rooms like this are more revealing than they realize.”
“Interesting.” I study her. “And what about my mask?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes meet mine, those flecks of gold catching the light. She studies my face with an artist’s intensity. “Yours would be carved from dark wood, weathered but resilient, with fascinating contradictions...” She hesitates, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face. She looks away, taking a quick sip of champagne. “Let’s just say yours is the most interesting.”
I sense she’s stepped back from something too personal, too revealing. For a moment, the line between performance and reality blurs dangerously between us.
“Gideon King, as I live and breathe.”
Fuck.
I recognize the voice before I turn. Vanessa Clarke approaches in a crimson dress cut so low it borders on obscene. Those ridiculous fake tits of hers, plumped up since I last suffered her presence, threaten to spill out like overfilled balloons. Her smile is sharp as a blade.
What did I ever see in her?
“Vanessa. I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“ Daddy always supports the Bronson Foundation.” Her gaze shifts to Ava, her eyes narrowing in recognition. “Well, if it isn’t the mysterious bride. We meet again, Mrs. King.”
Ava straightens her shoulders slightly, clearly remembering their confrontation at the last charity event. “Vanessa,” she acknowledges coolly.
“Still enjoying your time in Gideon’s world?” Vanessa rudely takes the champagne flute from Ava’s hand, pretending to examine it. “How lovely. Gideon always did have exquisite taste.” She hands it back with a smirk. “In art, at least.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “Ava’s work was recently featured at the Wess Gallery.”
“How... quaint. Starting small is admirable, I suppose.”
“The Wess Gallery has launched some of the most influential artists of the past decade,” Ava replies evenly.
“I’m sure.” Vanessa’s smile doesn’t falter. “It must be quite an adjustment, moving from student art shows to... all this.” She gestures vaguely around the ballroom.
“Change is part of growth,” Ava says. “Though some things remain constant. Like genuine talent.”
I suppress a smile. My fake wife has claws.
“I overheard you talking about the art market earlier,” Vanessa says. “You must find these investment conversations terribly boring, Ava.”
“Actually,” I interrupt, wishing she would take the hint and leave us alone, “Ava has an excellent eye for investment opportunities. It’s one of the many things I admire about her.”
Vanessa’s eyes narrow. “Fascinating. Such a departure from your usual type.”
“Perhaps I finally recognized what I truly wanted,” I say, placing my hand protectively at the small of Ava’s back. I grab my champagne glass and take a sip, turning away.
“It’s a miracle her silicone rack doesn’t launch itself onto the appetizers,” Ava mutters for my ears alone.
I choke on my champagne, a spray escaping before I can control it. The laugh that follows breaks through my carefully maintained composure. Several heads turn our way, eyebrows raised at this breach of decorum from Manhattan’s typically controlled power broker.
“Christ, Ava,” I whisper, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin. “A little warning next time.”
“Totally worth it if for your reaction alone,” she replies, beaming. The unexpected spark in her eyes catches me off guard almost as much as her comment did.
The dinner bell chimes, saving us from further scrutiny. As we move toward our assigned table, Vanessa follows too closely.
“You know, I’m actually surprised you married at all,” she murmurs, loud enough for Ava to hear. “Especially after what happened with Celeste. That kind of betrayal leaves scars.”
I feel Ava tense beside me. Damn Vanessa and her viper’s tongue.
“Ancient history,” I reply coldly. “And irrelevant.”
To my dismay, the seating arrangement is a nightmare. Goddamn it. Vanessa somehow scored a spot at our table, three seats away. I’m going to have to have a little talk with the event coordinator later. Because someone sure as hell greased the wheels to plant her here, and knowing Vanessa, she probably fucked the spineless prick into compliance. Classic.
She catches my eye and offers that predatory smile, clearly pleased with her strategic positioning. I deliberately turn my attention to Ava instead.
Let the viper seethe. I don’t play games. I end them.
Throughout the first course, Vanessa dominates conversation, peppering her speech with references to events Ava wasn’t part of, and dropping names she couldn’t possibly know. I deliberately avoid engaging her directly.
I watch Ava carefully. She holds her own, asking intelligent questions, refusing to be intimidated. Pride swells in my chest unexpectedly.
As the main course arrives, Vanessa gets up, those silicone tragedies of hers jiggling as she fake-reaches for the salt. Christ, she’s about as subtle as two bazookas in a ballet.
I start looking away, but then she “slips,” her wrist catching Ava’s glass and knocking it over. A bloodbath of Cabernet cascades across the pristine tablecloth and splashes onto Ava’s blue gown.
“Oh!” Vanessa’s hand flies to her mouth in mock horror. “How clumsy of me. I’m so sorry.”
Ava gasps, jumping to her feet as the stain spreads across her abdomen. Her face turns a bright crimson.
“It’s ruined,” Vanessa says with poorly concealed satisfaction. “What a shame. Thankfully it doesn’t look like it was too expensive. I’ll cover the replacement cost, of course.”
Something inside me snaps. The room seems to narrow, my vision focusing entirely on Vanessa’s smug face.
“Enough.” My voice is deadly quiet, but the table falls silent. “Apologize. Properly.”
“It was an accident, Gideon. Don’t be dramatic. I said I’d pay for it.” Vanessa attempts a light laugh that dies when she meets my eyes.
“It wasn’t, and we both know it.” I stand, my chair scraping against the marble floor. “My wife deserves your respect, Vanessa. She has more talent and authenticity in her little finger than you’ve managed to acquire in your entire privileged existence.”
Vanessa pales. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Apologize. Now. Or I’ll make sure your father’s company finds itself suddenly facing regulatory scrutiny.”
The table has gone deathly quiet. Even the surrounding tables have noticed the tension.
“I... apologize for the accident,” Vanessa says stiffly to Ava.
“For the deliberate sabotage ,” I correct.
Her lips thin. “I apologize for my actions. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” I turn to Ava, whose eyes are wide with surprise. Her face is still bright red. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I lead her away from the table, my hand firmly at her back, feeling the eyes of every socialite in the room following us. My heart hammers with a rage I haven’t felt in years.
In the corridor outside the restrooms, Ava turns to face me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says softly. The blush is finally starting to fade from her cheeks now that we’re out of the limelight.
“Yes, I did.” My voice is still tight with anger. “She had no right.”
“It’s just a dress. Remember what you told me when I spilled champagne all over your suit? ‘It can be replaced’.”
“This is a way different. She did it on purpose. Yours was accidental.” I meet her eyes, finding unexpected vulnerability there. “Look, it’s not about the fucking dress.” I run a hand through my hair. “It’s about respect. You’re my wife.”
“Your fa—” she catches herself, and looks to both sides to make sure no one is nearby, then leans in. “Your fake wife,” she whispers.
She’s right, of course. But still.. .
“ They don’t know that,” I whisper back, retreating behind my professional mask. “Our cover needs to be convincing.”
Something flickers in Ava’s eyes. Disappointment, perhaps. She nods. “Of course,” she whispers. “The performance .”
The way she says that last word rips me open like a goddamn letter bomb, leaving my insides raw and smoking. I slam the vault shut on whatever the hell that feeling is, and instead say: “I’ll have the car brought around while you clean up. No point staying for dessert with your dress in that condition. Plus I’ve had just about enough of Vanessa for one night.”
“Me, too,” she agrees.
Twenty minutes later, we sit in silence as the car glides through Manhattan’s glittering streets. The wine stain from the cheap Cabernet has set on Ava’s dress, a fucking Rorschach test of Vanessa’s petty bullshit. It only pisses me off all the more that Ava paid for it herself.
Seb, my driver, had lined the white leather seats with towels like we’re transporting a biohazard. Smart man. Pity he can’t wrap my temper in absorbent fucking fabric too.
I stare out the window at the skyline. The quiet only causes my anger to stew and my jaw clenches so hard it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack.
“Blackwell made another move today.” The words snap out of me, cold and clinical, like I’m dictating a memo. “He’s approaching minor shareholders, trying to build coalition support.”
She turns, and I feel her stare like a brand. “Why are you telling me this now?”
Because if I don’t, I’ll tear this car apart. Because your lips are still trembling, and I want to bite them until they forget how.
I don’t look at her. “Strategy. You’re part of this now.” Liar. This is about control. About clawing back the part of me that wanted to bury Vanessa in a lawsuit and a shallow grave when that wine hit Ava’s dress.
“Oh.” Ava’s shoulders drop slightly. “And what are we doing about it?”
“My legal team is preparing countermeasures. We’ll need to make additional public appearances this week to reinforce our relationship narrative.”
“More performances,” she says flatly.
“That’s what we agreed to.” I keep my voice even, devoid of the turmoil churning inside me. “It’s working so far.”
She nods, turning to look out her own window. The space between us in the back seat feels miles wide.
I shouldn’t care. This arrangement is temporary. Convenient. But the fact that I still want to strangle Vanessa for humiliating Ava, that my hands continue shaking with suppressed rage, tells me I do care.
No! This is business. Just business.
But as I watch her reflection in the window, I’m no longer certain I believe my own lies.