35. Ava
35
Ava
I ’m standing in the kitchen of the penthouse, wiping down counters that are already spotless. My mother texted an hour ago that her flight landed early, and she’ll be here any minute. Cue the anxiety spiral.
Nothing says ‘I’ve totally got my life together’ like panic-cleaning a perfectly clean multi-million dollar apartment.
The elevator dings, and I nearly drop the sponge. Gideon emerges, looking unfairly put together in a tailored charcoal suit. He takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow.
“Your mother isn’t due for another forty minutes.”
I blow a curl out of my face. “She texted. Early flight.”
“Ah.” He loosens his tie slightly. “Should I change?”
“Into what? Something less intimidatingly perfect?” I gesture at my casual outfit, at the jeans and a semi-decent blouse that doesn’t have paint on it. “Trust me, you’re fine. She’s already going to think I’ve been abducted by aliens and replaced with a pod person who marries billionaires.”
Gideon’s lips twitch. “I’m hardly that intimidating.”
I give him a look that says seriously? but the doorbell interrupts whatever sarcastic retort was forming.
Here we go. Deep breaths. It’s just your mother. Who you haven’t seen since your wedding to a man you met a week prior. Totally normal.
Gideon moves to answer, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. “Remember the story. We met at the gallery. You were mistaken for staff. We hit it off. Whirlwind romance. Yada yada.”
“You think I’d forget our own cover story?” His voice carries a hint of amusement. “Considering that most of it actually happened?”
“I’m just saying, she’s going to have questions. Lots of them.”
“I’m prepared for an interrogation,” he says, straightening his already perfect tie.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, wait until she starts showing you my embarrassing childhood photos on her phone.”
The moment the door opens, I’m enveloped in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and maternal worry.
“Ava, sweetheart!” My mother pulls me into a tight hug. She’s only 5’2” but hugs like she’s trying to compress you into a more manageable size. “Let me look at you.”
She holds me at arm’s length, her critical eye scanning me from head to toe. Her gaze lingers on my hair, which I know she’s mentally styling into something more “appropriate.”
Please don’t mention that I need a trim. Please don’t mention that I need a trim .
“You need a trim, darling.”
Damn it!
“Mom, this is Gideon. My husband.” The word still feels foreign on my tongue, even after three months.
She turns, and I watch her face go through a series of expressions. I see surprise, assessment, and finally, approval. Because of course she approves. He’s Gideon freaking King, billionaire among billionaires.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. Redwood,” Gideon says, taking her hand.
“Please, call me Wendy. And I must say, the pictures don’t do you justice.” She actually flutters her eyelashes at him.
Oh god, my mother is flirting with my fake husband. Kill me now.
My face heats up predictably. “Mom, let’s get you settled. I’ll show you the guest room.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure your husband can manage my bag. I want to see this apartment I’ve heard so much about.” She links her arm through mine, practically dragging me toward the living area. “Though you haven’t actually told me much of anything, have you?”
And we’re off to a great start.
Two hours later, we’re seated at a restaurant Gideon chose. It’s something upscale but not intimidating, with muted lighting and tables spaced far enough apart for privacy. Our ever-present security detail hovers discreetly nearby.
My mother has spent the entire time peppering Gideon with questions about his business, his family, his intentions. He answers each one with practiced ease, occasionally reaching for my hand or giving me looks that would convince anyone we’re madly in love.
He’s good at this. Too good. It’s almost easy to forget this is all for show.
“So tell me,” my mother says, sipping her wine, “how did you know Ava was the one? It all happened so quickly.”
Gideon’s hand finds mine on the table. “Some things you just know.” He looks at me with such convincing affection that I almost believe it myself. “When I met Ava, it was like seeing in color for the first time.”
Wow. That was...poetic. And completely rehearsed, obviously.
“He’s exaggerating,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “He just liked that I didn’t fawn all over him when I found out who he was.”
“That’s pretty much the truth,” Gideon agrees, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, “She saw me, really saw me, before she knew who I was. Oh sure, I’m sure she suspected that John was just an alias. But she didn’t know for sure. And she fell in love with the man, not the billionaire. That’s rare in my world.”
Something shifts in my chest, a flutter of something dangerous.
My mother watches our exchange with sharp eyes. “Well, it’s certainly different from your usual type, Ava. Remember that street artist? What was his name? The one with all the tattoos who kept trying to ‘liberate’ you from conventional artistic expression?”
“Rafael,” I mutter. “And we don’t need to discuss my dating history. ”
“Or that photography student who convinced you to model for him?” she continues, ignoring my discomfort. “Those photos were so tasteless.”
“Mom.” My voice carries a warning.
“They weren’t tasteless,” Gideon interjects smoothly. “I’ve seen Ava’s portfolio. Those black and white studies were actually quite powerful.”
I stare at him, genuinely surprised. I didn’t even know he’d looked at my portfolio.
“You’ve seen them?” my mother asks, equally surprised.
“Of course.” Gideon sounds almost offended. “I make it a point to understand what matters to Ava. Her art is extraordinary.”
My mother doesn’t quite know what to make of this. She takes another sip of wine and changes tactics. “Speaking of art, I saw the most interesting painting at the Richardsons’ home last month. Remarkably similar to your grandmother’s portrait.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My hand tightens around Gideon’s involuntarily.
No. Not now. Not here.
I feel myself stiffen, the room suddenly too hot, too close. Memories surface. The portrait I’d poured my heart into, my stepfather’s smug face when he told me it was “an investment opportunity,” the scholarship committee’s sympathetic emails when I had no submission to offer.
Gideon’s gaze shifts to me, a question in his eyes. I can’t look at him. Can’t speak.
“Wendy,” he says, his voice cutting through my spiral, “tell me about your flight. I hear the new first-class cabins on that route are exceptional.”
Just like that, he redirects the conversation. I feel a rush of gratitude so intense it almost makes me dizzy. I glance up to find him watching me with concern beneath his polished exterior.
He noticed. He actually noticed.
Later, in the guest bathroom, my mother corners me while Gideon takes a business call.
“All right, what’s really going on?” she demands. “You’ve never been impulsive. You analyze art supplies before buying them, for heaven’s sake. Yet I’m supposed to believe you met and married this man in a week?”
I cross my arms defensively. “Sometimes you just know.”
“Ava Elizabeth Redwood. I’m your mother.”
“It’s complicated, okay? We connected. He understood me in ways no one else has.” The words tumble out with surprising conviction.
I’m supposed to be acting, so why does this feel like truth?
“He’s very wealthy,” she says, watching my reaction.
“This isn’t about money,” I snap, genuine anger flaring. “Do you really think I’d marry someone for their bank account?”
“No,” she admits after a moment. “That was unfair of me. But darling, it’s just so sudden.”
“Life is sudden sometimes.” I soften my tone. “He makes me happy, Mom. He respects my art. He... sees me.”
And he protects me. Notices when I’m uncomfortable. Redirects conversations that hurt me.
She studies my face. “Well, I can see that much is true. You light up when he walks into a room.”
I’m saved from responding by a knock on the door. Gideon’s voice comes through. “Everything all right in there?”
“Fine!” we answer in unison, then look at each other and laugh.
She lowers her voice. “I noticed you have your own bedroom. You’re not having sex with him?”
“Mom!” I say, feeling my cheeks turn red. “That’s none of your business!”
She shrugs. “What? It’s perfectly normal for married couples to have sex. Healthy, in fact. So why aren’t you sharing a bed?”
I knew it was a bad idea to let my mom stay with us! Shit shit shit.
“We decided early on that it was better this way,” I lie, feeling my face become hotter. “Gideon is a light sleeper. If I move even an inch, he wakes up. So, separate bedrooms.”
She studies me suspiciously, then shrugs. “Okay, honey. As long as yours happy.”
“Oh I am!” I say with false enthusiasm. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”
But if anyone can see right through me, it’s her.
Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything, and instead gives me a long hug.
Hours later, after my mother has gone to bed, I retreat to my small studio space in the penthouse. The canvas I’ve been working on is covered with a cloth. I hesitate before pulling it away.
The painting reveals itself. It’s an abstract study in blues and grays, but unmistakably inspired by Gideon. The unmistakable line of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze, the set of his shoulders when he’s protecting something he cares about.
I step back, confronting the truth I’ve been avoiding. My art has always been my most honest form of expression, and these new paintings are telling a story I’m not ready to acknowledge.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. No emotional involvement, remember?
But as I look at the canvas, at the way I’ve unconsciously woven Gideon’s essence into my work, I know I’m already breaking that clause with every brushstroke.
I cover the painting again, as if hiding it might somehow hide my feelings too.
Three more months. That’s all we have left.
And then what?
I’m suppose to pretend none of this ever happened?
Pretend I don’t feel a thing?
Oh god, it’s going to be hard.
Best not to let myself get more attached than I already am.