29. Ava
29
Ava
I ’m hunched over a sleek corporate laptop Gideon lent me at the breakfast bar, squinting at real estate listings when I hear his bedroom door open. My entire body tenses like I’ve been electrocuted.
Act natural. Just a normal morning with your fake husband who definitely didn’t bend you over his desk last night.
I take a deliberate sip of coffee and click to the next potential gallery space with what I hope looks like intense professional focus. Spoiler alert: I haven’t registered a single detail about any of the properties I’ve been “reviewing” for the past forty minutes.
“Good morning,” Gideon says, his voice perfectly neutral as he heads to the coffee machine.
“Morning,” I reply without looking up. “Coffee’s fresh.”
Look at us. So casual. So professional. Nobody would ever guess your underwear is currently residing in a trash can at King Enterprises.
I feel my cheeks heating up and bury my face deeper in the laptop screen. The gallery listing in front of me shows a bright space with exposed brick walls in Chelsea. Perfect lighting, decent square footage, and completely incapable of distracting me from the memories of last night.
Gideon pours his coffee and leans against the counter. I can feel him watching me, but I refuse to look up. If I look at him, he’ll see everything written all over my face. The memory of his hands on me, his mouth, the way he growled “good girl” when I—
STOP IT. Gallery spaces. Focus on gallery spaces.
“Find anything promising?” he asks, his tone so businesslike we might as well be discussing quarterly reports.
I nod, still not meeting his eyes. “A few. There’s a great space in Chelsea. Good foot traffic, excellent natural light.”
“Smart location. The art crowd there has money to spend.”
The conversation feels absurdly formal considering that twelve hours ago I was moaning his name loud enough for half of Midtown to hear. The contrast is almost funny, in a deeply unfunny way. And thank god everyone at his workplace had gone home.
I click another listing. “I’m also looking at a smaller place in the West Village. More intimate setting, potentially lower overhead.” It feels a little odd planning for something months away when I don’t even know what I’ll be doing next week.
Or who I’ll be after all this ends , a little voice whispers in my head.
I dismiss the voice. I’m purposely looking at listings to remind myself that yes, this will end.
So don’t get attached.
I finally risk a glance at him. He’s wearing a crisp charcoal suit, hair perfectly styled, not a hint of stubble on his jaw. Nothing about him suggests a man who had wild, passionate office sex last night. Meanwhile, I’m wearing yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt with a coffee stain on the hem because I can barely function this morning.
This is fine. Totally fine. We’re adults. We had sex for show in case Blackwell was watching. It meant nothing. We both agreed it meant nothing.
“The West Village space looks interesting,” Gideon says, walking over to look at my screen. He stands close enough that I can smell his cologne. That expensive blend of blood-orange zest and woodsmoke that makes my stomach flip.
I shift slightly away, creating distance. “It needs work, but the location is prime. It’s super expensive, though. But by the time our contract is up, I should have enough from the settlement to make it work. And if not, I suppose I could always convert my Brooklyn studio into a gallery.” I try to sound excited, professional, but there’s a weird hollowness in my chest when I mention the end of our arrangement. Which makes zero sense because that was always the plan.
“Sometimes the diamonds in the rough are the best investments.” His voice sounds cold, detached.
Is he still talking about real estate? I have no idea. This conversation feels loaded with subtext, but maybe that’s just me projecting. Maybe for him, this really is just about gallery spaces.
I close the laptop. “Well, I should get to my studio. I have a commission I need to finish.”
I don’t have a commission. What I have is an urgent need to escape this penthouse before I do something stupid like ask if he’s thinking about last night too.
“Actually,” Gideon says, checking his watch, “you might want to wait a few minutes. There should be a delivery coming up.”
As if on cue, the elevator chimes, and Philip, Gideon’s household manager, appears with a signature white box from Magnolia Bakery.
“A delivery for you, Mrs. King,” Philip says, placing the box on the counter.
“Thank you, Philip,” I say automatically, staring at the box.
Philip discreetly exits, leaving me alone with Gideon and a box of pastries I didn’t order.
I open the lid to find an assortment of my favorite pastries. There are the raspberry almond croissants I mentioned loving once, those little lemon tarts that are impossible to eat without making a mess, and chocolate éclairs that I’ve been known to make inappropriate noises over.
“What’s this?” I ask, confused by this display of thoughtfulness from a man who’s been acting like we’re discussing a merger rather than the fact that we violated our “no emotional involvement” clause in spectacular fashion.
I remind myself that it was just sex. That there was no emotional involvement.
It’s a good lie.
Gideon takes a sip of his coffee. “I thought you might enjoy them with your coffee.”
“You remembered these are my favorites.”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t hard to remember. You practically proposed marriage to that éclair when we had dinner at Le Bernardin. ”
I laugh despite myself, the tension easing slightly. “In my defense, that was a life-changing éclair.”
Our eyes meet, and for a second, I see a flash of the man from last night. The one who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. Then the mask comes down again, and he’s back to being the controlled, detached businessman.
“I should head out,” he says, finishing his coffee. “Board meeting at nine.”
“Right. Of course.” I pick up a croissant just to have something to do with my hands. “Thanks for the pastries.”
He nods, heading for the elevator. At the last moment, he turns back. “Ava—”
I look up, heart suddenly racing.
Is he going to acknowledge what happened? Are we finally going to talk about it? Oh please, please...
“The gallery in Chelsea,” he says instead. “Make sure you check the water damage in the back corner. That building had flooding issues last year.”
And just like that, we’re back to business.
“Thanks for the tip,” I say, forcing a weak smile.
When the elevator doors close behind him, I slump against the counter. The pastries sit there, a thoughtful gesture that completely contradicts his detached behavior. Who does this? Who pretends nothing happened while simultaneously ordering your favorite pastries?
A man who’s as confused as you are, probably.
I pick up the éclair and take a bite, letting the rich chocolate fill my mouth. It’s delicious and infuriating, just like everything about this situation.
Last night was supposed to be a performance, a show for anyone who might be watching. So why does it feel like we broke something important? And why, despite our mutual agreement that it meant nothing, did he remember exactly which pastries make me happy?
I stare at the half-eaten éclair in my hand. “This is ridiculous,” I tell it, as if a pastry might have answers. “It was just sex. Really good, mind-blowing sex that I can’t stop thinking about, but still just sex.”
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Gideon.
“Forgot to mention—dinner tonight? Jonas and his wife invited us. Maintaining appearances.”
I stare at the text, trying to decode if there’s any hidden meaning. Probably not. Just more fake-marriage maintenance.
I type back: “Sure. What time?”
His response comes immediately: “7. Wear the blue dress.”
The blue dress. The replacement he’d bought after Vanessa ruined my gown at the gala. The one that hugs every curve and makes me feel almost beautiful. The one hanging in my closet with the tags still on.
I shove the rest of the éclair in my mouth, chocolate smearing my lips.
Totally fine. Just another fake date with my fake husband.
I grab another pastry for good measure. If I’m going to navigate this emotional minefield, I’m going to need all the sugar I can get.
The car ride to Jonas’s brownstone is quiet, almost painfully so. Gideon spends most of it answering emails on his phone while I stare out the window, wondering how we managed to go backward since last night. The silence between us feels heavy, charged with all the things we’re not saying. I’m in the blue dress he asked for, but when I came out of my bedroom wearing it, he hardly noticed. Good things I left the tags on it, so I can still return it if I want the money.
Jonas and his wife Sarah greet us at the door with warm smiles that make my chest ache. They look like a real couple. You know, the kind that actually loves each other instead of having sex on office desks for “show.”
“Ava!” Sarah hugs me like we’re old friends. “Nice to see you again.”
“You as well,” I say, my fake smile firmly in place.
“Oh, you forgot a tag!” Sarah says.
I look down and grimace in mortification, and quickly tuck the tag back inside my dress. My face is a bright red.
Gideon’s hand settles on the small of my back as we move into the living room, and I hate how my body still responds to his touch. This is all muscle memory, nothing more. Still, it calms my tag embarrassment, and I feel the heat draining from my face.
Through appetizers and wine, Gideon and I perform our roles flawlessly. I laugh at all the right moments. Our fingers intertwine on the table. We’re the picture of newlywed bliss.
But something’s different tonight. There’s a calculated precision to Gideon’s performance that wasn’t there before. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he looks at me. His touch feels mechanical, rehearsed.
“So how’s married life treating you both?” Jonas asks over dessert, his eyes moving between us with what feels like too much perception. I wonder again if Jonas knows.
Of course he knows, he’s Gideon’s most trusted confidant.
Again I feel a pang of guilt for not telling Lucy.
I glance at his wife Sarah. Likely she has no idea about our little arrangement.
“Married life is definitely an adjustment,” I say honestly. “But a good one.”
Gideon nods. “Ava’s been looking at gallery spaces. She has quite the eye for potential.”
“Just like she spotted your potential, right?” Sarah teases, and everyone laughs.
I force myself to join in, but inside I’m crumbling. Whatever connection we shared last night has vanished, replaced by this hollow performance that feels more fake than ever.
When Gideon excuses himself to take a call, Jonas leans toward me. “He seems different with you,” he says quietly, the concern evident in his voice. “What happened?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” If only he knew.
Later, as we’re leaving, Gideon’s phone rings again. He steps aside to answer it, his expression darkening as he listens.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he returns.
“Fine,” he says curtly. “Just business.”
In the car, he finally breaks the silence. “The SEC is investigating the trust arrangement.”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“It means they’ll want to interview us. Separately.” His jaw is tight. “They suspect our marriage might not be legitimate.”
Well, they’re right about that.
“No doubt Blackwell had a hand in this,” he continues.
“So what do we do?” I ask, fear rising in my throat .
Gideon stares straight ahead, his profile hard in the passing streetlights. He lowers his voice and leans closer to me so the driver can’t hear. “We stick to our story. We’re in love. End of discussion.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. We have to convince strangers our marriage is real when we can’t even look each other in the eye after what happened between us.
I turn to look out the window again, watching the lights of the city blur together. We’re farther apart now than we’ve ever been, and I have no idea how to bridge the gap.
Or if I should even try.