31. Ava
31
Ava
P aint fumes fill my studio space in Gideon’s penthouse, that familiar cocktail of linseed oil and turpentine that smells like home. I’m working on a new canvas. It’s something abstract that’s been haunting me since the SEC investigation yesterday.
Because nothing helps one process feelings better than splattering red paint across a pristine white canvas, of course.
I still can’t shake the way Gideon looked at me in the car afterward. Like I’d caught him feeling something he didn’t want to admit. He’d defended me to federal investigators. Me , his fake wife. Lost his cool, apparently. It’s almost funny when you think about it.
I dab more crimson onto my palette, swirling it with a touch of burnt umber. The door to my studio is closed, my sanctuary within this ridiculous marble palace I now call home. My phone buzzes with a text from Lucy .
How’s married life with Mr. Billionaire? Having sex yet? ;)
I snort and ignore it. If only she knew the half of it...
A voice in the hallway interrupts my thoughts. Male, hushed, urgent. It takes me a moment to place it. Gideon mentioned someone was coming by to review materials for tomorrow’s board meeting. What was his name again? Burt. Burt Lee. Yes. That’s it.
I hadn’t realized he was still here.
“The timeline needs adjustment,” I hear Burt say. “King’s distracted with this SEC investigation... yes, I’m at his penthouse now... no, he doesn’t suspect a thing .”
Well that’s not suspicious at all. Maybe he’s planning a surprise party? In June? When Gideon’s birthday is in November?
I set down my brush and move closer to the door, careful not to make a sound. My heart pounds uncomfortably against my ribs.
“We need to proceed carefully,” Burt continues. “If King catches wind of this before we’re ready...” He lowers his voice further, forcing me to strain to hear. “I understand. I’ll have the information you need by Friday.”
The conversation ends, and I hear footsteps moving away. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my cheeks burning hot.
So that was weird, right? Not just me being paranoid? Because that sounded a lot like corporate espionage dinner theater.
I stay frozen for several minutes, debating what to do. I’m pretty sure Burt wasn’t expecting an audience for his little cloak-and-dagger phone performance. Certainly not Gideon, and definitely not the paint-splattered wife hiding in her studio like some accidental corporate spy. He must have thought I wasn’t home.
I could tell Gideon immediately, but what exactly would I say? That I eavesdropped on a vague conversation that sounded shady? He’d probably dismiss it, or worse, think I was imagining things.
Because nothing says “credible witness” like the art student who talks to her paintings and once mistook a billionaire for gallery staff.
After all, it’s completely possible that Burt knew I was in the studio and actually wanted me to overhear. You know, to embarrass me in front of Gideon by throwing out baseless accusations.
I hear Gideon’s voice now, muffled through walls, followed by the distant sound of the front door closing. They must be finished with their meeting.
Twenty minutes later, I hear Gideon’s footsteps pass my studio door, followed by his voice speaking to someone on the phone as he moves toward his home office. The penthouse falls quiet again.
I chew my lower lip, weighing my options. If Burt really is up to something, Gideon needs to know. But I need proof first.
Detective Ava on the case. Nancy Drew but with paint-stained fingers and imposter syndrome. At your service.
I wash my hands, scrubbing aggressively at the paint under my fingernails. A plan forms in my mind. A stupid, reckless plan. But hey, that’s basically my unofficial brand at this point.
Last week, Gideon set me up with access to the company server. “You need to understand what you’re protecting,” he’d said during one of our financial education sessions. The irony doesn’t escape me now.
I move to the small desk in the corner of my studio where my company laptop sits. Logging in, I navigate to the communication archives. My pulse pounds in my ears, hands slightly trembling.
This is totally normal. Just a casual Wednesday afternoon of corporate espionage. Nothing to see here.
I search for Burt Lee’s communications, fumbling through menus until I find his email archives. Most seem legitimate. Routine business correspondence, meeting schedules, project updates. I almost convince myself I imagined the suspicion in his voice.
Then I see it. A separate folder labeled “BL Personal” that contains exchanges with an email address I don’t recognize: [email protected].
MWB... Mark William Blackwell? No way. That would be too obvious, right?
I open the first email and my stomach drops.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Riverside Information
The figures you provided were helpful.
Our offer on the Hartman properties will move forward based on your intelligence. The deposit as discussed has been made to the offshore account .
We’ll need the board meeting minutes as soon as they’re available.
- M
My breath catches. The Hartman properties. Those are the warehouses three blocks from our Riverside Corridor project. The ones Blackwell suddenly wanted to develop in exactly the same way we were developing ours.
I dig deeper, finding more emails. Meetings schedules. Confidential projections. Discussion of financial incentives. It’s all here. Irrefutable evidence that Burt is feeding information to Blackwell.
Holy. Shit.
My face flushes hot as anger and betrayal wash over me. Not for myself, but for Gideon. This man sits at his table, pretends to be loyal, all while selling him out.
The laptop suddenly pings with a new notification. A message appears in my company inbox:
From: [email protected]
Subject: Security Alert
Your 2:37pm search queries have been flagged.
You might reconsider your line of inquiry, Mrs. King.
Unless you’re prepared for what happens next.
Ice floods my veins. The timestamp of 2:37pm is exactly when I started searching Burt’s communications. This isn’t an automated system message. This is Burt, telling me he knows exactly what I’m doing.
Shit shit shit fuck and more shit.
I stare at the screen, my hands trembling. Common sense says I should take this straight to Gideon now. But another part of me, the stubborn, independent part, wants to gather more evidence first.
Because apparently self-preservation isn’t high on my list of priorities today.
I create a secure folder on my personal drive and methodically begin documenting what I’ve found. All the screenshots, email threads, timestamps. If I’m going to accuse one of Gideon’s high-level executives of betrayal, I need solid proof.
The sound of footsteps approaching my studio sends panic coursing through me. I quickly close the tabs and switch to a digital sketch program just as a knock comes at the door.
“Ava?” Gideon’s voice.
“Come in,” I call, hoping my voice sounds normal.
The door opens and Gideon stands there, suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight of his muscular forearms should not be distracting right now, and yet here we are.
“Everything okay?” he asks, eyebrows drawing together. “You look flushed.”
As usual, my face is a human mood ring that broadcasts every emotion directly to the world.
“Just working,” I gesture to my canvas next to the laptop. “Got a little caught up in it.”
He studies me for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly. “How long have you been in here?”
“A few hours,” I shrug. “I heard you and Burt earlier. How was the meeting?”
Gideon leans against the doorframe. “Productive. We’re finalizing strategy for tomorrow’s board presentation on the Riverside expansion.”
My heart skips. The same project Burt is feeding information about to Blackwell.
Should I tell him now?
“That’s good,” I say instead. “I’m excited to see how it develops.”
Listen to me, pretending I belong in a boardroom when just last month I was debating whether mac ‘n’ cheese counted as a food group. Yet here I am, practically salivating at the chance to impress Mr. CEO with my amateur detective skills. As if his approval is suddenly the gold star I never got in kindergarten finger painting.
The realization that I desperately want to make Gideon proud hits me like a splash of cold water. When exactly did his opinion start mattering so much? Probably somewhere between that night on his desk and him defending me to federal investigators. Inconvenient timing, these feelings of mine. Really inconvenient.
“You should join us tomorrow,” Gideon says. “Your insight on the project was valuable. The board should hear it directly from you.”
I nod, trying to look enthusiastic while my mind races. Tomorrow’s meeting. That must be what Burt was talking about on the phone. Whatever he’s planning, it’s happening soon. He did mention Friday , after all. That’s what, two days from now?
“I’d like that,” I say.
Gideon’s eyes drift to my abandoned painting. “Red,” he observes. “Angry?”
I follow his gaze to the canvas, where slashes of crimson cut across the surface like wounds.
“Not angry,” I lie. “Just... intense.”
His lips curve slightly. “You can say that again.” He pushes off from the doorframe. “Dinner in an hour? I had Sebastian pick up food from that Italian place you liked.”
“Sounds great,” I smile, hoping it reaches my eyes.
After he leaves, I stare at my laptop, my mind whirling with plans. I need to investigate further before tomorrow’s meeting. I need to understand exactly what Burt is planning and how much damage he’s already done.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, once again tempted to call Gideon back, to tell him everything right now. But it’s not just pride stopping me. I want to present him with complete information, not just suspicions.
And that’s when it hits me.
This is what a real partner would do. Not just a contract wife. A real partner.
The thought brings heat to my cheeks, but I push it aside. First things first. I need to discover just how deep Burt’s betrayal goes, and I need to do it before tomorrow’s board meeting.
I focus on my laptop again, my resolve hardening. If Burt thinks his little warning will scare me off, he clearly doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with.
Art students might look soft, but we’re scrappy as hell. Game on, Burt.