34. Gideon
34
Gideon
I wake before Ava, my arm still draped over her waist. For a moment, I allow myself to simply watch her sleep. The early morning light filters through the partially opened blinds, casting a soft glow across her face. She looks peaceful, unburdened by the complications of our arrangement. My chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache.
This is dangerous territory.
I carefully extract myself from the bed, mindful not to wake her. In the bathroom, my gaze lingers on the shower longingly. I quickly look away, splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. The man looking back at me seems different somehow. Softer around the edges. Fuck.
Last night was... intense. The fear of losing her to Burt’s machinations, the protective rage that coursed through me, culminating in that explosive release. But it shouldn’t have happened. We have a contract, for Christ’s sake. A contract with a very specific clause about emotional involvement.
I tell myself it was just sex, but the problem is, sex can very easily lead to feelings. But is that necessarily a bad thing?
Yes. Yes it is.
I’m dressed and in the kitchen when she finally emerges. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh, her hair a wild tangle of curls. She freezes when she sees me, uncertainty flashing across her face before she composes herself.
“Morning,” she says, her tone deliberately casual.
“Coffee?” I offer, equally detached.
“Please.”
I pour her a cup, careful to avoid brushing her fingers as I hand it to her. The distance between us feels both necessary and painful.
“About last night,” I start, because someone has to say something.
“Just adrenaline,” she cuts in quickly. “The whole Burt situation was intense.”
I nod, ignoring the irrational stab of disappointment. Isn’t this what I want? What we both agreed to?
“Right. Just adrenaline.”
She takes a sip of her coffee, eyes fixed on anything but me. I should be relieved by her detachment. Instead, I find myself irrationally hurt. I want her to be affected, to show some sign that last night meant something to her.
Pathetic, King. Get your shit together.
“We’ve reached the halfway point,” I say abruptly.
Her eyes snap to mine, and I see a glimmer of fear. “What?”
“Our arrangement. Today marks three months. We’re halfway through.”
Understanding dawns on her face, followed by something I can’t quite read. Uncertainty? Regret? Whatever it is, it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that practiced neutrality she’s perfected.
“Oh. Right.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. Three months down, three to go. The thought sits heavily in my stomach.
“I’ve made reservations at Le Ciel for tonight,” I say, filling the silence. “For appearances’ sake.”
Her eyebrow arches slightly. “ Le Ciel? Isn’t that impossible to get into?”
I shrug. “Not for everyone.”
“Of course not,” she says with a small eye roll. “Not for the mighty Gideon King.”
There’s no bite to her words, just a gentle teasing that makes my lips twitch. This is safer ground for us. The banter, the surface-level interactions.
“Wear something nice,” I say, finishing my coffee. “The blue dress maybe?”
“Oh, it’s the blue dress you want, is it?” she says it with a sly smile.
I nod. “I have meetings all day, but I’ll have the car pick you up at seven.”
“Yes, sir,” she mock salutes, and despite everything, I find myself smiling.
As I leave the penthouse, my security detail falling into step behind me, I force my mind back to business. Away from thoughts of Ava in my shirt, of her body writhing beneath mine, of the way she called my name when she came.
Just business. That’s all this is.
Le Ciel is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the Manhattan skyline a glittering backdrop through the floor-to-ceiling windows. We’re seated at the table with the best view, of course. I wouldn’t accept anything less.
Ava looks stunning in that deep blue dress of hers, the one that clings to all her curves and makes her eyes seem almost golden in the dim light. Her hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. I’ve had to force myself not to stare all evening.
“So,” she says, taking a sip of champagne, “three months of… you know . Should we celebrate by reviewing all our greatest hits?”
I laugh despite myself. “It’s certainly been an adventure.”
“Oh yes,” she agrees with mock seriousness. “Me spilling cocktail sauce on the ambassador’s wife the other day was particularly adventurous. The way she gasped… I thought I’d single-handedly caused an international incident. I don’t know what it is with me and spilling things.”
I smile. “What about the time you started eating before me at the charity gala?”
She groans, covering her face. “God, rich people and their rules. I’m surprised they didn’t have me exiled from high society on the spot.”
“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes widen slightly, a blush spreading across her cheeks.
Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.
“Well,” she recovers quickly, “not all of us were born knowing which fork to use for the fish course versus the sorbet palate cleanser.”
“There is no sorbet fork,” I correct automatically.
“See?” She points at me triumphantly. “This is what I mean. You’re like a walking etiquette encyclopedia.”
“My education was... unconventional, but thorough.”
Her expression softens. “Tell me something about little Gideon that I don’t know.”
I hesitate. Personal history isn’t something I share easily, but there’s something about the warmth in her eyes that disarms me.
“I used to collect comic books,” I admit. “Had them all organized by publisher, then series, then chronological order.”
“No way,” she laughs delightedly. “Let me guess. Batman?”
“How did you know?”
“Dark, brooding, rich guy with trust issues? It tracks.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself. “You’re terrible.”
“I prefer ‘refreshingly honest,’” she counters, raising her glass in a mock toast.
The evening flows easily after that. We talk about everything and nothing. Her latest art project. My expansion plans for the west coast properties. The ridiculous boob-popping dress Vanessa wore to the Bronson charity gala. She makes me laugh more in one night than I have in months.
Ray and Mike stand discreetly by the entrance, watching without watching. The other patrons pretend not to stare at us. Ava doesn’t seem to notice or care, too busy telling me about the time she accidentally used permanent marker instead of erasable pen in Professor Marshall’s class.
For a few precious hours, I allow myself to forget that this is all for show. That in three months, she’ll cash her final settlement check and walk away.
The car glides through Manhattan’s late-night streets, the city lights reflecting off the sleek black exterior. Ava is quiet beside me, her face turned toward the window. I watch her reflection in the glass, allowing myself this stolen moment.
What if we extended the arrangement?
The thought ambushes me without warning. We could redefine the terms. Another six months. A year. I could offer her more money, better terms. She could use the additional funds for her gallery space. It would be a business decision, nothing more.
Bullshit.
I ruthlessly shut down the thought. This is dangerous sentimentality. The kind that leads to compromised judgment and costly mistakes. I’ve been down this road before, let emotion cloud my business sense, and it nearly bankrupted me. Celeste made sure of that.
No. The arrangement ends as planned. Six months, clean break, everyone gets what they need.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Ava asks, turning from the window.
I school my features into practiced neutrality. “Just considering some business matters.”
She studies me for a moment, her artist’s eye seeing more than I’d like. “Always working,” she says softly. Not an accusation, just an observation.
“It’s who I am,” I reply.
The car pulls up to our building, and the moment breaks. Ray and Mike emerge from the SUV that was following us. Ray opens Ava’s door while Mike scans the street, ever vigilant. As we enter the lobby, my hand finds the small of her back automatically, a gesture that’s become second nature.
This is just a performance. A carefully orchestrated show for the benefit of others. The warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress means nothing. The way she leans slightly into my touch is just muscle memory.
In three months, the curtain falls. The show ends.
And I’ll be fine with that.
I have to be.