24. Gideon
24
Gideon
I pour myself a third finger of whiskey, staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline. It’s late as hell but sleep isn’t coming. All I can think about is that damn painting.
Ava’s canvas haunts me. My face carved from dark wood. Her artistic interpretation of the mask I wear. Is that how she really sees me? As this cold, emotionless man carved from wood?
And what about that fiery figure threatening to consume both of us. Consume me .
I take a long sip, letting the burn travel down my throat. Is that how she sees me? As someone about to be destroyed by the memory of a woman from his past?
Or is the fire actually meant to be her? She wasn’t exactly forthcoming about it...
The thought stops me cold. Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s the consuming fire. The way she’s wormed her way into my thoughts. The way I find myself staring at her when she’s not looking. The way I almost fucking kissed her tonight .
I slam the glass down harder than intended. This wasn’t part of the plan. Spousal Asset Protection Trust. Business arrangement. End of story.
My phone vibrates. Jonas.
“Fuck, it’s late,” I answer.
“You’re still up,” he counters. “The Riverside Corridor properties. Blackwell’s angling for them.”
“Through what avenue?”
“Shell company called Nexus Acquisitions. Found the paper trail tonight.”
I run a hand through my hair. “That son of a bitch never sleeps.”
“Neither do you,” Jonas says. “But we need to move on this. Burt suggested we let them go. Thinks they’re not worth the capital investment.”
“Burt would say that,” I mutter, remembering the lukewarm assessment from our investment committee. “What’s your take?”
“Honestly? The projections are mediocre. But the location has potential if the right vision comes along.”
An idea forms. “Send me the full portfolio. I want to run it by someone with fresh eyes.”
“Who? Not one of Blackwell’s people, I hope.”
“No,” I say, watching the ice melt in my whiskey. “My wife.”
“Ava?” Jonas’s surprise is evident. “Gideon, with all due respect—”
“Just send the files. I know what I’m doing.”
After he hangs up, I wonder if that’s true. Do I know what I’m doing? This could be a perfect test. See if Ava has any business sense to complement her artistic talents. The trust gives her decision-making power, after all. Might as well see what she’s capable of.
“You want me to what?” Ava stares at me over her coffee mug the next morning. Her hair is a mess of curls, her oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. It reminds me of when she was wearing my dress shirt the morning after our one night stand. She looked so hot in it, so—
Stop. Just stop.
“Review an investment opportunity,” I repeat more coldly than I intend, spreading the portfolio across the kitchen island. “The trust needs to start making decisions, and I thought this would be a good first exercise.”
“At seven in the morning?”
“Business doesn’t sleep.” I tap the aerial photos. “Riverside Corridor. Five mixed-use properties along the western edge of Manhattan. Currently underperforming.”
She narrows her eyes. “Is this a test?”
Smart woman. “Consider it an educational opportunity.”
“Right.” She sets down her coffee and picks up the market analysis. “And what does your team think?”
“Mixed opinions. The numbers don’t tell a compelling story.”
“But you’re still interested?”
I shrug. “I’m keeping an open mind.”
“That’ll be the day,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat in it. She starts flipping through pages, her brow furrowed in concentration.
I watch her for a moment. The intensity in her eyes reminds me of how she looks when she’s painting. Fully present. Analytical in an entirely different way than my finance team.
“These visuals are terrible,” she says suddenly.
“What?”
“These renderings.” She taps the architect’s concept sketches. “They’re completely uninspired. No wonder your team can’t see the potential.”
This wasn’t the criticism I expected. “The potential is in the numbers, Ava.”
“No, the potential is in what these spaces could become .” She starts shuffling through the property photos. “Look at this. The light quality in these warehouses is incredible. Northern exposure, high ceilings, original industrial elements.”
“They need substantial renovation.”
“Of course they do. But you’re not seeing what’s already there.” She spreads out several photos. “These are artist spaces waiting to happen. Creative hubs. The kind of authentic industrial conversion that tech startups and design firms would kill for. Hell, if I didn’t have my Brooklyn studio, I’d be tempted to pick up one of these.”
I lean closer, trying to see what she sees. “The renovation costs—”
“Would be less if you preserved rather than gutted. Keep the character, add modern infrastructure.” Her fingers trace over a brick facade. “This neighborhood is on the cusp. Artists move in first, then come the galleries, the boutiques, the coffee shops. Property values triple within five years.”
“That’s a very optimistic timeline.”
“It’s a predictable pattern.” She looks up at me, challenge in her eyes. “I’ve watched it happen in Brooklyn, in Queens. I know artists. We’re like urban pioneers. We find the beautiful, affordable spaces before anyone else realizes their value.”
Her certainty is compelling. I pull up the market projections on my tablet. “Even with aggressive estimates, the ROI doesn’t justify—”
“Your projections assume standard corporate tenants.” She shakes her head. “Create a cultural destination and you’ll attract premium clients willing to pay for authenticity and character. The Instagram factor alone changes the whole equation.”
“The what?”
“Instagram factor. TikTok. Social media, you know? Spaces that photograph well command higher rents because businesses know customers will share images, creating free marketing.” She grabs a pen and starts sketching on the back of one report. “See, if you preserved these beams, restored the original windows, added some strategic architectural lighting...”
I watch her hand move across the paper, transforming the bland rendering into something with soul. Something that tells a story.
“The standard financial models don’t account for the value of beauty,” she says softly. “But I promise you, it’s quantifiable.”
For a moment, I just stare at her, seeing her— really seeing her—maybe for the first time. Not as the artist who stumbled into my gallery. Not as my contractual wife. But as someone with a perspective that might actually be valuable.
“Send me your proposal,” I hear myself say.
She blinks. “What?”
“Put together your vision. Numbers, concepts, timeline. I’ll present it to the investment committee this afternoon.”
“You serious?”
“You’ve got four hours.” I check my watch. “I’ll have Zoe set you up with the financial modeling software.”
“I don’t need financial modeling software,” she says, gathering the papers. “I need my sketchbook and your property history records.”
“This isn’t an art project, Ava.”
“No, it’s better.” Her eyes shine with sudden excitement. “It’s both business and art. The intersection is where the real value lies.”
I watch her hurry from the kitchen, already muttering about color schemes and spatial flow. Something uncomfortable settles in my chest. It’s a feeling I don’t want to examine too closely.
“This is...” Jonas scratches his chin. “Unexpected.” He looks from the presentation on the conference room screen to me. “ Very unexpected.”
Ava’s vision for the Riverside properties covers the wall. A blend of practical renovation plans, historical preservation elements, and a marketing strategy targeting creative industry tenants. The numbers have been adjusted to reflect premium positioning rather than standard commercial rates.
The investment committee sits in stunned silence. Burt Lee’s face has turned an interesting shade of red.
“The heritage tax credits alone offset fifteen percent of the renovation costs,” I point out, indicating the financial breakdown. “And the phased approach allows for cash flow from the first buildings to support later development.”
“It’s a complete departure from our standard model,” Burt sputters. “We’ve always focused on conventional—”
“Conventional approaches yield conventional returns,” I cut him off. “This proposal projects a thirty-two percent higher ROI over five years.”
“Based on some very optimistic tenant assumptions,” he counters.
“Based on documented trends in similar developments in Chelsea and DUMBO,” I correct him. DUMBO stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, of course. “The data supports the creative hub concept.”
Jonas leans forward, studying the financial models. “Who developed this approach? It doesn’t look like our usual work.”
I hesitate only briefly. “Ava did.”
“Your wife?” Burt’s eyebrows shoot up. “The art student?”
“The trustee of our investment entity,” I remind him coldly. “Who brings a valuable perspective we’ve been lacking.”
“It’s brilliant,” says Ella Winters, our lead counsel. “Genuinely innovative. If we move quickly, we can secure these properties before Blackwell realizes their potential.”
The discussion continues, but I find my thoughts drifting to Ava. To the way her eyes lit up when she described her vision. To the passion in her voice when she insisted beauty had quantifiable value.
I’ve always believed business decisions should be clinical, detached. Emotional distance ensures rational outcomes. Yet here I am, about to commit millions based on an artist’s intuition.
An artist who sees me as wood and herself as fire.
An artist who’s making me question everything I thought I knew.
Jonas catches my eye across the table and gives me a slight nod. He sees it too. The unexpected value Ava brings. Not just as a legal shield against Blackwell, but as a genuine business partner with insights none of us possess.
My phone buzzes with a text from her: “Well? Am I fired yet?”
I type back: “Committee approving acquisition. Your vision, our first official investment together.”
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Disappear. Appear. Finally: “Holy shit.”
I find myself smiling. Then quickly stop when I notice Jonas watching me.
“All in favor?” I ask the committee, bringing my focus back to the business at hand.
The vote is unanimous. Even Burt reluctantly raises his hand, though his expression suggests he’s already planning how to undermine this approach.
I gather my papers, already calculating our next moves to secure the properties before Blackwell can interfere. But beneath the strategic planning, a more troubling thought persists.
I’m in dangerous territory here. Admiring Ava’s mind wasn’t part of the plan. Respecting her business instincts wasn’t in the contract.
Section 5, paragraph 3. No emotional involvement. She wanted it included as badly as I did.
But as I head back to my office to call our acquisition team, I wonder if it’s already too late for that particular clause.