25. Ava
25
Ava
I ’m still buzzing from yesterday’s investment victory as we pull up to Jonas and Sarah’s brownstone. The Riverside Corridor project is actually happening. My vision, my design. Gideon’s team is moving forward with it. Me, the art student they probably all dismissed as a trophy wife, just made a multi-million dollar business decision that got unanimous approval.
Not bad for someone whose stepfather said you’d never amount to anything.
“You’re smiling,” Gideon observes as our driver opens the car door.
“Just thinking about how surprised that board member’s face looked when the committee voted.” I adjust the skirt of my emerald cocktail dress. “You said his face turned this fascinating shade of purple?”
“Red,” Gideon corrects, offering his hand to help me out. “But fascinating nonetheless.”
The townhouse is already humming with conversation and laughter when we arrive. Gideon’s hand settles at the small of my back as we enter, a gesture that’s become strangely familiar over these past weeks. His touch radiates warmth through the thin fabric of my dress.
Focus, Ava. It’s just a show.
Jonas spots us immediately, breaking away from a conversation to greet us. “The power couple arrives!” he announces, embracing Gideon with a hearty backslap before turning to me. “And the woman of the hour. Riverside Corridor is the talk of the office.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “It was a team effort.”
“Hardly,” Gideon says. “It was entirely Ava’s vision. I just provided the capital.”
Did Gideon King just give me full credit? Someone check if hell froze over.
Sarah appears with champagne flutes. “Happy anniversary, you two!” she says, kissing my cheek. Her perfume is subtle and expensive, nothing like the paint-thinner notes that probably cling to my skin despite my pre-party shower.
“You know it’s your anniversary, right?” I laugh, accepting the champagne.
“Yes, but it’s the first time we’re seeing you since your whirlwind wedding.” Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Everyone’s dying to hear more about how New York’s most eligible bachelor got swept off his feet so quickly.”
Oh crap. Here we go again.
“You’ll have to forgive my wife’s curiosity,” Jonas says with a wink. “She lives for a good romance.”
Gideon’s arm slides around my waist. “What can I say? When you know, you know.”
His voice carries that practiced smoothness we’ve rehearsed, but something in his tone sounds different tonight. More authentic. Still, he’s said that at least a thousand times by now, so maybe that can be expected.
“How did you meet?” asks a woman I don’t recognize, inserting herself into our circle.
My pulse quickens. We’ve fielded this question before, but something about this woman’s tone feels like a trap.
Gideon’s eyebrow raises fractionally. “Ava mistook me for gallery staff at first,” he explains, his fingers absently tracing circles on my hip. “It was refreshing to be seen as just a person, not a billionaire.”
“So I’m scolding this guy about champagne trays,” I continue, warmed by the genuine chuckles from our audience, “having no idea who he is, and later I discover he’s not staff but—”
“The owner of half of Manhattan,” Jonas finishes with a laugh.
“Long story short, after spilling champagne on him, he goes home to change, and comes back later that night claiming to be ‘John,’” I add, meeting Gideon’s eyes. “Specifically to explore our connection without his wealth and status interfering.”
Gideon’s gaze holds mine. “I wanted to know if what she felt was real.”
“And was it?” Sarah asks, clearly enthralled.
“Very,” Gideon answers, his voice dropping to that intimate register that makes my stomach flip even though I know it’s all for show.
Is it though? That look doesn’t feel fake.
I remind myself that every time we’re close enough to lock lips when no one is watching he always pulls back.
“When he finally told me who he really was, by then I’d already figured it out myself,” I admit, which draws more laughter.
“She came to appreciate my desire for genuine connection,” Gideon finishes smoothly.
“You married a week later, didn’t you?” The suspicious woman presses. “Isn’t that kind of fast?”
I feel heat creeping up my neck.
“When you’ve spent your life surrounded by people who want something from you,” Gideon says, his voice suddenly serious, “you recognize authenticity immediately.” His eyes never leave mine. “I wasn’t about to let that go.”
The group around us collectively sighs at this romantic declaration, and I’m momentarily stunned by how convincing he sounds.
Get it together. He’s just very good at this performance thing.
More guests arrive, and we’re momentarily separated as Jonas pulls Gideon into a conversation with some business associates. I find myself cornered by a cluster of socialites asking detailed questions about our wedding ceremony, which I deflect with vague answers about wanting privacy. Still, I’m thankful there’s no one like Vanessa at this party.
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and small talk. I notice Gideon watching me from across the room as I chat with his extended family members. He raises his glass slightly in a private toast, and I feel a ridiculous flutter in my chest.
It’s the champagne. Definitely the champagne.
The music shifts to something slower, more intimate, and couples begin gravitating toward the cleared area serving as a dance floor. Gideon materializes at my side, taking my half-empty glass and setting it aside.
“May I have this dance, Mrs. King?” he asks, extending his hand .
“Making sure we keep up appearances?” I murmur as he leads me to the floor.
“Something like that.”
His arm encircles my waist, drawing me closer than strictly necessary for convincing others. The spicy notes of his cologne mingle with the warm scent of his skin. I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. An image of his ripped chest and washboard abs flashes fleetingly through my mind. I dismiss it.
Show show show. It’s all a show.
“You’ve been remarkably comfortable tonight,” he observes, guiding me smoothly through the steps. “You’ve come far since that first charity gala.”
“Amazing what a little success will do for one’s confidence,” I reply. “Nothing like having a billionaire’s investment committee approve your crazy artist vision to make you feel like you belong.”
His lips curve into a genuine smile. “Not crazy. Inspired. ”
“A compliment from the great Gideon King? I should mark this day on my calendar.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
But there’s no bite to his words. His thumb traces small circles against my lower back as we sway to the music, and I find myself relaxing into his embrace.
“They believe us,” I say quietly, nodding toward our audience. “Our story.”
“It’s a good story.”
“Fiction usually is.”
His eyes find mine, searching. “Is it all fiction, though?”
Did he really just say that?
I must be imagining.
My heart stutters. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I said, is it all fiction?”
Oh my god. He did say it.
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
We turn slowly, and I become intensely aware of every point of contact between us. His hand at my back, my fingers curled around his, my chest occasionally brushing against his with each step.
He’s only acting this way because he wants to keep up the pretense. He’s going to go cold on me again as soon as we’re alone. I’m not stepping into the trap.
“The Riverside project,” I say, changing the subject to safer ground. “Did you always intend to give me a chance with it, or was that a spontaneous decision?”
“Let’s say I was curious what you’d do with it.” His gaze is steady. “You exceeded every expectation.”
Pride blooms warm in my chest. “I’m full of surprises.”
“That you are.” His eyes drop briefly to my lips before returning to meet mine. “Dancing skills included.”
“Three years of mandatory ballroom lessons during high school,” I explain. “My mother’s futile attempt to make me more ladylike.”
“Not entirely futile.”
His compliment catches me off guard, and I feel heat rising to my cheeks. We’re moving closer together, the space between us almost nonexistent now.
This doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.
The thought jolts through me, sharp and unsettling. I’m not supposed to enjoy being in his arms. I’m not supposed to notice how perfectly we fit together, how naturally we move as one. I’m definitely not supposed to wonder what would happen if I leaned up those few inches and pressed my lips to his. We’re in public after all. We’re supposed to have some PDA. A little kiss wouldn’t hurt...
Oh, but it would. Hurt badly.
Section 5, paragraph 3: No emotional involvement.
“You look flushed,” he murmurs. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I manage. “Just warm.”
“We can step outside for some air.”
Before I can answer Jonas appears beside us, apologizing for the interruption. “I need to borrow Gideon for five minutes. Blackwell’s camp just made an announcement.”
The spell breaks instantly. Gideon’s expression hardens, and he nods. “Excuse me,” he tells me. “This shouldn’t take long.”
As they walk away, I stand alone at the edge of the dance floor, my skin still tingling where his hands had been. Sarah offers me another glass of champagne, which I gratefully accept.
“You two are absolutely perfect together,” she gushes. “The way he looks at you... Jonas never believed Gideon would settle down, you know. But seeing you together, it makes perfect sense.”
I smile and nod, taking a long sip of my drink, unsure how to respond. Because the terrifying truth is starting to sink in: I’m no longer sure how much of this is an act.
I’m in trouble. Real, serious trouble.
The champagne bubbles tickle my nose, but they can’t drown out the vague realization forming in my mind: I could be starting to fall for my fake husband.