27. Ava
27
Ava
I stand in the corner of the gallery space, trying to breathe normally while watching a stream of visitors move through my exhibition. My graduation show. The culmination of four years of hard work, sleep deprivation, and more student loan debt than I care to think about. Debt that is now completely paid off, thanks to Gideon.
Just breathe, Ava. They’re only people looking at pieces of your soul displayed on canvas. No pressure.
“Stop hiding in the corner,” Lucy appears beside me, wine cup in one hand and my arm in the other. “This is your moment. Own it.”
“I’m not hiding,” I protest. “I’m strategically observing.”
Lucy snorts. “You’re lurking like you crashed someone else’s exhibition. These are your paintings, genius.” She hands me her cup. “Drink this. It’ll help with your deer-in-the-headlights situation.”
The Parsons exhibition hall buzzes with conversation, the familiar scent of wine from plastic cups mixing with perfume and that distinct gallery smell, what I like to call Lysol and possibility. My hands won’t stop fidgeting with the sleeve of my black dress, the one Lucy insisted I wear because “it makes you look like a real artist instead of someone who fell into a paint bucket.”
“Has Gideon shown up yet?” Lucy whispers, scanning the crowd.
“No, and please don’t make a thing about it if he does.” Little does she know, every few minutes my eyes dart to the entrance, looking for him, but I spot only my security detail. “He has an empire to run. This is just a school thing.”
Not that I care if my fake husband misses the most important night of my academic career. That would be pathetic.
Lucy gives me a look that says she’s not buying my nonchalance. “Right. Just a ‘school thing’ that represents everything you’ve worked for since—”
“Ava, darling, this collection is remarkable.” Dean Wess appears at my side, interrupting Lucy’s pep talk. “The evolution of your technique since that first student showcase at my gallery is extraordinary.”
“Thanks, Dean.” I force myself to stop scanning the door. “Having that early exhibition opportunity really helped me find my direction.”
And introduced me to a billionaire who would eventually propose a fake marriage to save his business empire. Thanks for the career boost.
“That piece in particular,” Dean points to the large canvas dominating the far wall, “is generating quite a buzz.”
My chest tightens with pride as I follow his gaze to my reimagined portrait of my grandmother. It’s the centerpiece of my exhibition. It’s not as good as the original my stepfather sold, but it captures her spirit. Her hands are painted mid-gesture, the way they always moved when she told stories about her own artistic attempts in her youth.
When I painted it, I spent long nights squinting at the ceiling, terrified I’d forgotten some crucial detail of her face. The exact crinkle of her eyes when she smiled or the particular tilt of her chin. Honestly, half the reason I recreated it was pure self-preservation. My way of cementing her image in my mind before time could steal that from me, too.
“It’s the most personal piece here,” I admit.
Professor Marshall joins us, his salt-and-pepper hair more disheveled than usual. “Ms. Redwood, your technical execution has finally caught up with your emotional intelligence.” He nods approvingly at my work. “Though I must say, these pieces show a depth I hadn’t seen before.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
He rubs his temples thoughtfully, a gesture I’ve unconsciously adopted from him over the years. “There’s a vulnerability in your recent work. A willingness to expose raw feeling.” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Perhaps this whirlwind romance has been good for your art.”
My face immediately heats up. “I don’t think my personal life has anything to do with—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupts. “Art reflects life. Always has. And your recent pieces have heart in a way your earlier work, while technically proficient, sometimes lacked.”
Lucy squeezes my arm supportively but doesn’t help my case by adding, “I’ve been saying the same thing. There’s definitely a new emotional quality to her work lately.”
Before I can formulate a response that won’t incriminate me in this fake marriage, a small commotion at the door draws my attention.
And there he is.
Gideon King, looking like he stepped straight out of a business magazine cover despite the slight dishevelment that tells me he rushed here from work. His presence immediately changes the energy of the room. Heads turn, whispers start. His security detail takes positions by the door, joining my own, while he scans the crowd, finally locking eyes with me.
Stop it, heart. This flutter thing you’re doing, I won’t stand for it.
But my heart, apparently, has a mind of its own, and refuses to listen.
“Ah, and here’s the supportive husband now,” Professor Marshall says with a knowing smile before excusing himself.
Lucy leans in and whispers, “He actually came. And he looks like he ran here.”
“Shut up,” I mumble, feeling my cheeks burn hotter.
Gideon makes his way toward us, pausing briefly to study each piece he passes. When he reaches me, the scent of his cologne wraps around me like a familiar blanket.
“I apologize for being late,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Board meeting ran long.”
“You came,” I say stupidly, unable to hide my surprise.
His expression softens. “Of course I came. It’s your graduation exhibition.”
He could have sent flowers. Or a text. Or nothing at all. Our contract doesn’t obligate him to show up for school events.
Lucy clears her throat pointedly, and I startle back to reality .
“Gideon, you remember Lucy?”
“Of course.” He smiles warmly at her. “Good to see you again.”
“I was just telling Ava how proud of her I am,” Lucy says. “Her work has reached a whole new level.”
“I can see that.” His eyes meet mine. “Would you mind giving me a tour?”
Lucy winks at me behind Gideon’s back. “I’ll go refill my drink. Take your time.”
I guide him through the exhibition, explaining concepts and techniques, hyperaware of his proximity. He asks intelligent questions, making observations that show he’s actually paying attention, not just going through the motions for appearance’s sake.
“These larger pieces,” he notes, “they have a different quality than the ones in your penthouse workspace.”
“That’s because they were done in my Brooklyn studio.” I can’t help feeling a surge of pride. “The warehouse space allowed me to work at a larger scale, with this kind of natural light. It was worth every penny of the investment.”
“Clearly,” he agrees, studying a particularly large abstract. “These pieces couldn’t have been created in a confined space. The freedom of movement is evident in the brushwork.”
I blink at him, surprised by his insight. “That’s exactly right.”
We reach my grandmother’s portrait last. Gideon stands silently before it for a long moment.
“This one means something special to you,” he says finally. It’s not a question.
I nod, throat suddenly tight. “My grandmother. She... supported me, when others wouldn’t.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I shrug, aiming for casual but probably missing by a mile. “It’s not as good as the original, but it’s mine again.”
His eyes hold mine. “It’s exceptional, Ava.”
The compliment hits differently than all the others I’ve received tonight. Something about the way he says it makes me believe him.
“What happened to the original?” he asks.
I shake my head, unable to let him in that deep. Not yet. “It doesn’t matter.”
He studies me a moment, but thankfully lets it go. He looks around. “I noticed none of your exhibition pieces include me,” he says with a hint of mischief. “Not even one tiny portrait? I’m wounded.”
I laugh despite myself. “Your ego is intact, I promise. But no, these are all from my Brooklyn studio. The pieces with you, the ones I paint in the penthouse, well, they are...”
Private. Too revealing. Evidence of feelings I’m not supposed to have.
“Are what?” he prompts when I trail off.
“Still works in progress,” I finish lamely.
Lucy appears at my side, saving me from further explanation. “Sorry to interrupt, but that gallery owner from Chelsea is asking for you. I think she wants to discuss representation.” She gives me an excited little push. “Go. Now.”
As I’m pulled away to talk business, I glance back to see Lucy and Gideon chatting easily. Whatever she’s saying makes him laugh, and I feel a strange mix of gratitude and terror. Lucy knows me better than anyone. What if she sees right through our arrangement? What if she manages to pry something from Gideon that gives it all away?
But no, I need to trust him. Trust her .
Later, as the night winds down, Lucy catches me alone by the refreshment table.
“So,” she says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You really did it. First-generation college graduate with a killer exhibition.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I admit, suddenly emotional. “All those late nights you brought me coffee during finals, all the times you modeled for free—”
“Stop, you’ll ruin your makeup.” She grabs my hands. “I’m just happy to see you finally getting the recognition you deserve. And for what it’s worth, your husband seems genuinely proud of you.”
I glance across the room where Gideon stands examining a piece, his expression thoughtful. “You think so?”
“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night when you weren’t looking,” she says. “That’s not fake, Ava.”
Fake . I smile sadly at the word.
Before I can respond, Professor Marshall pulls me aside to introduce me to another industry contact. As we talk, I spot Gideon across the room with Lucy, deep in conversation once again. Whatever she’s telling him seems serious, and I have a momentary panic that she’s warning him not to hurt me.
“Your work has matured dramatically,” the contact tells me. “There’s an emotional authenticity here that’s rare in emerging artists.”
“Thank you,” I say, wondering if everyone can see what Professor Marshall sees. You know, the influence of this complicated arrangement with Gideon bleeding into my art.
Later, as the crowd thins, I find myself between Lucy and Gideon before the portrait of my grandmother.
“Congratulations,” Gideon tells me quietly. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, you’ve achieved something exceptional here.”
“It feels surreal,” I admit. “This milestone wasn’t supposed to happen. Not according to my stepfather’s plans anyway.”
Gideon’s expression hardens slightly. “His loss. The art world’s gain.”
Lucy squeezes my hand. “Told you so. For years.”
Standing there at my graduation exhibition with my best friend and my fake husband, I’m struck by the bizarre reality of my life. This powerful man who entered my world through a business arrangement now stands beside me at my most vulnerable professional moment, seemingly genuinely proud of my accomplishment.
And the worst part? I care that he’s here. I care what he thinks of my work.
When exactly did that happen?
I glance at his profile as he studies my grandmother’s portrait again, and a truth I’ve been avoiding settles over me like the final brushstroke on a canvas: despite our careful contract with its emotional boundaries, despite my determination to keep this arrangement strictly business, Gideon King has affected me.
And I’m not sure how long I can keep up the charade.
How long I can pretend to be unaffected.
Well, shit.