30. Gideon
30
Gideon
T he SEC offices smell like stale coffee and bureaucracy. I sit across from two investigators in identical gray suits, maintaining the same composed expression I’ve worn through countless high-stakes negotiations. My lawyer sits silently beside me, legal pad at the ready.
While we wait for the investigators to organize their materials, my mind drifts to what happened two nights ago in my office. Ava, stopping by with that glass of scotch, her eyes challenging me as she sat on my desk. “We’ll give them a good show,” I’d said, and fuck if we didn’t deliver.
I’ve replayed it too many times since then. Her body against my desk. The sounds she made when I told her she was a good girl. The way she looked at me afterward, flushed and vulnerable, before we both pretended it was nothing.
It was the first time I’d slipped since that fateful one-night stand. A moment of weakness I couldn’t afford to repeat. The contract was clear for a reason. My reasons. Section 5, paragraph 3 wasn’t just legalese. It was self-preservation.
A mistake. That’s what it was. An alcohol-fueled, stress-induced mistake. Two glasses of scotch and I’d thrown away weeks of discipline. No more drinking around Ava. No more letting my guard down.
It was just physical release. Meaningless. A performance for potential surveillance, as we’d rationalized afterward. Nothing more.
So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about it?
I shift in my chair, forcing my attention back to the present. This investigation could threaten everything if I don’t stay focused. I need to be Gideon King, calculating businessman, not whatever version of myself emerged that night with Ava.
How many versions of me are there? Fuck. I’m not even sure anymore. Let alone which one is the real me.
“Mr. King,” says the woman, Agent Michaels according to her badge, “we appreciate your cooperation today.”
I nod, keeping my posture relaxed but authoritative. “Happy to clear up any misunderstandings.”
The male investigator, Patterson, shuffles through a file. “Let’s discuss the timing of your marriage to Ava Redwood.”
For the next forty minutes, I answer their standard questions with practiced ease. Yes, Ava and I met at her gallery showing. Yes, our relationship progressed quickly. No, there were no financial discussions before our marriage. My responses flow smoothly, the narrative we’ve rehearsed so many times now second nature.
Patterson leans forward. “It’s just curious, Mr. King, that you established this trust arrangement so soon after the wedding. Almost as if that was the primary purpose.”
“The timing was entirely coincidental,” I reply.
“So you say.” Michaels taps her pen against her notepad. “Tell us about Ms. Redwood’s qualifications to oversee a financial structure of this magnitude.”
“My wife is intelligent and capable,” I say, noting their raised eyebrows at my emphasis on ‘wife.’ “She’s quick to learn and brings fresh perspective to business decisions.”
Patterson exchanges a look with Michaels. “Fresh perspective is valuable, certainly. But wouldn’t someone with actual financial experience be better suited for this role? Someone from your board, perhaps?”
Except a trust held by a board member would defeat the entire purpose of the scheme. Only a Spousal Asset Protection Trust would protect against Blackwell’s takeover attempt. But I don’t say that, of course.
I can feel my lawyer tensing beside me. He knows my tells, knows when my patience is fraying.
“Ava’s role is appropriate for the structure we’ve created,” I say flatly.
“Let’s be direct, Mr. King,” Michaels says. “We’ve seen cases like this before. Powerful men manipulated by attractive younger women. Our research shows you’ve been in this position before. Celeste Dubois, wasn’t it? The woman who cost your company nearly seventy million dollars.”
My hands clench under the table. “That situation was entirely different.”
“Was it?” Patterson asks. “Art student with significant debt. Suddenly married to one of New York’s wealthiest men, with access to extraordinary financial resources. The parallels seem worth noting. We’re only trying to help you.”
“Help me?” I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. “What exactly are you implying?” The temperature in my voice drops ten degrees.
Michaels shrugs. “Only that the arrangement seems convenient. For her. Perhaps you have a blind spot when it comes to certain types of women, Mr. King.”
Something snaps inside me. The control I’ve maintained through this entire charade slips.
“That’s fucking absurd,” I spit out, ignoring my lawyer’s warning touch on my arm. “Ava isn’t manipulating anyone. She’s nothing like Celeste. Nothing. She’s the most genuine person I’ve ever met. If you knew anything about her talent, her integrity, you’d know she doesn’t need my money or connections. She’s going to succeed on her own fucking merit.”
Both investigators watch me with new interest, and I realize I’ve shown my hand.
Shit. Fuck. And shit all over again.
“You want to know the difference? Celeste approached me with an agenda. I approached Ava. And she literally turned down my first settlement offer,” I continue, unable to stop now. I’m not revealing anything new. They’d know about the settlement offer. It was a public filing, in case of divorce. What they don’t know is that the divorce is pre-planned. “She negotiated terms to maintain her independence. Does that sound like someone looking for an easy payday, you sick fuck?”
My lawyer clears his throat. “Perhaps we should take a short break.”
I shake my head. “No. I want to be crystal clear.” I lean forward, locking eyes with Michaels. “My wife isn’t using me. If anything, I’m the one who benefits from this marriage. Ava challenges me, calls me on my bullshit. She sees value in things I’d overlook. She creates beauty instead of destroying it. So don’t you dare compare her to Celeste or anyone else. Question our timing all you want, but don’t insult her character. Ever. Again.”
The room falls silent. The outburst was uncharacteristic, unprofessional, and completely honest. My lawyer looks like he might have a stroke.
Patterson makes a note. “Strong feelings, Mr. King.”
I exhale slowly, regaining my composure. “Yes. For my wife. That shouldn’t be surprising.”
The rest of the interview passes in a blur of technical questions about the trust structure. When we finally finish, my lawyer pulls me aside in the hallway.
“What the hell was that?” he hisses. “You never lose control in these situations.”
I straighten my tie. “They crossed a line.”
“That was the point. They were fishing for exactly that reaction.”
“Did I say anything that compromised us legally?”
“Well, no. Ironically, your outburst probably helped your case. No one fakes that kind of indignation.”
That’s what troubles me as I wait for Ava in the building’s reception area.
I wasn’t faking anything.
When she emerges from her own interview, I search her face for signs of distress. She looks surprisingly calm, almost confident.
“How did it go?” I ask as we walk toward the exit.
“Better than expected,” she says. “ They seemed satisfied with my answers about the trust arrangement. I think my art background actually helped. I explained how I evaluate potential compared to established value, like in the Riverside project.”
Smart. I hadn’t considered that parallel.
“What about you?” she asks. “How was your interview?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit as we walk out the door, our security detail in tow.
Outside, my driver holds the door of the custom built Cadillac. My security team hops into the SUV behind it, and once we’re inside with the privacy screen up, Ava turns to me.
“You’re not sure? That doesn’t sound like Gideon King, master of every situation.” Her tone is light but her eyes are searching. “What happened in there?”
I stare out the window, weighing how much to reveal. “I may have lost my temper.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “May have? You? Mr. Ice-Cold-Under-Pressure?”
“They suggested you were manipulating me. Using me for financial gain.”
“Oh.” Her voice softens. “And that made you angry?”
“It was unprofessional,” I say, avoiding her gaze.
“That’s not an answer.” She tilts her head, studying me. “The Gideon King I know doesn’t care what people think about him or his business. But you defended me anyway. Why?”
The car slows for traffic, and I’m trapped in this conversation I don’t want to have. “They were questioning your integrity. I corrected them.”
A small smile plays at her lips. “You lost your cool. For me.”
“Don’t make it into something it’s not,” I warn .
“What exactly is it, then?” she challenges.
I turn to her, ready with some dismissive response, but the words die in my throat. She’s looking at me with perfect understanding, seeing right through the walls I’ve carefully constructed. No one reads me this easily. Not even Jonas, who’s known me for decades.
“You’re upset because you meant it,” she says quietly. “Whatever you said in there wasn’t just part of our act, was it?”
My jaw tightens. She’s right, and we both know it.
“We should focus on next steps,” I say instead. “If the SEC investigation escalates—”
“Always deflecting.” She shakes her head, but she’s not angry. “It’s okay, you know. To care.”
“That wasn’t our agreement.”
“No,” she agrees. “It wasn’t.”
The car starts moving again, but something between us has shifted. The carefully maintained distance feels impossible to restore. She’s seen beneath my mask, and I don’t know how to put it back on.
“Gideon,” she says softly, “thank you. For defending me.”
I nod, unable to trust my voice. The realization settles over me like a weight: this woman knows me. Really knows me. And that terrifies me more than any SEC investigation or corporate takeover ever could.