39. Gideon
39
Gideon
I wake before Ava does, her body curled against mine, her dark curls spilling across my chest. For two weeks straight, she’s slept in my bed. Not that I’m counting.
This wasn’t part of the plan. None of this was.
Carefully, I extract myself without waking her and head to the kitchen to start coffee. My phone buzzes with messages from Jonas about the Tanaka deal finalization, but I ignore them for now. Domestic fucking bliss has never been my thing, yet here I am, measuring coffee grounds and setting out two mugs instead of one.
When I return to the bedroom with coffee, Ava is gone. I hear the shower running in her bathroom, not mine. Even though she sleeps in my bed every night now, she still maintains this separation. Her clothes remain in her closet, her toothbrush in her bathroom. Small invisible boundaries that remind us both this arrangement has an expiration date.
Six months was the agreement. We’re well past the halfway mark now .
I retreat to my home office, reviewing the Tokyo contracts while sipping my coffee. I’ve been working from home almost every day since coming back.
An hour passes before I hear Ava moving around in the kitchen. When I emerge, she’s hunched over her laptop at the dining table, so absorbed she doesn’t notice me watching her.
“Finding something interesting?” I ask, startling her.
She jumps slightly, then minimizes a window on her screen. Not fast enough. I caught a glimpse of real estate listings. Gallery spaces.
“Just doing some research,” she says, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. Her tell when she’s nervous.
“For what?” I move closer, leaning against the counter.
She hesitates, then sighs and reopens the window. “Gallery spaces in Chelsea. I’m trying to get a sense of what’s available and what I might be able to afford once the settlement matures.”
Once the settlement matures. Once our arrangement ends. Once we go our separate ways. The words aren’t spoken, but they hang in the air between us.
“Some of these places are going for twenty thousand a month,” she continues, scrolling through listings. “But I found a few smaller spaces that might work. Some are for sale. Maybe I’ll just buy one out right. We’ll see.”
I study her profile as she points out different listings. The determined set of her jaw, the focused intensity in her eyes. This is what I wanted, encouraged even. For her to plan her future, build her career. Yet seeing the concrete evidence of our inevitable separation creates an uncomfortable pressure in my chest .
“You know,” I say, keeping my tone casual, “I could make a few calls. There’s a space opening up on West 25th that hasn’t even hit the market yet. The owner owes me a favor.”
Ava stiffens, her fingers freezing over the keyboard. “No.”
“No?” I raise an eyebrow. “It’s prime real estate, Ava. Perfect lighting, high ceilings. Exactly what you need.”
“I don’t want your help with this.” Her voice is quiet but firm.
“You don’t want my help,” I repeat, an edge creeping into my tone. “With something I could resolve with one phone call.”
She turns to face me fully now, eyes flashing. “I need to do this myself, Gideon.”
“Why? Because your pride is more important than practicality?”
“Because I need to know I can do it on my own.” She stands, crossing her arms. “My stepfather tried to ensure I’d never have this opportunity when he sabotaged my scholarship. Every connection I make, every decision I control, it’s reclaiming what he tried to take from me.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow. I recall her tear-stained face as she described her stepfather’s deliberate sabotage, how he sold her grandmother’s portrait to destroy her chance at a debt-free education. How he systematically undermined her artistic career at every turn.
“I understand that,” I say more gently. “But using my connections doesn’t diminish your achievement.”
“It does to me.” She rubs her temples in frustration. “Look, I know it probably sounds ridiculous to you. You’ve built an empire. You understand how to leverage connections and opportunities.”
“And you think I did that alone?” I counter. “You think I never accepted help?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you never had someone deliberately try to convince you that you couldn’t do it.” Her voice catches slightly. “That you weren’t good enough. That your passion was worthless.”
I watch her, this fierce, talented woman who’s somehow become essential to my daily life. Who challenges me in ways no one else dares. Who sleeps in my arms every night but still keeps her distance in a dozen subtle ways.
“Fine,” I concede. “Do it your way.”
Relief washes over her face. “Thank you.”
I nod, turning away to refill my coffee mug, needing a moment to sort through my conflicting reactions. Part of me, mostly the controlling part that’s ensured my success, wants to override her objections and smooth her path anyway. To secretly use my power and influence to ensure she gets the best possible space for her gallery.
The other part admires her stubborn independence. Respects her need to build something that’s wholly hers, untainted by my influence or assistance. That part knows she’ll get really pissed off if I cross her on this.
“What’s your timeline?” I ask, leaning back against the counter.
She relaxes slightly, seeing I’ve accepted her decision. “I want to have everything in place to launch within a month after the remaining settlement payment. I’m meeting with Dean Wess next week to discuss potential artists for the inaugural exhibition.”
After the remaining settlement payment. After our contract ends. After we’re no longer husband and wife, even on paper.
“Ambitious,” I note, sipping my coffee.
“Necessary,” she corrects. “I need to hit the ground running. Art world attention spans are short.”
I study her as she returns to her laptop, watch her scrolling through listings with intense focus. She’s planning her exit strategy. Just as she should be. Just as I encouraged her to do.
So why does it feel like someone’s tightening a vise around my chest?
“I have a meeting with the developer for the Riverside project this afternoon,” I say, changing the subject. “Want to join?”
She looks up, surprised. “You want me there?”
“It was your vision that made the project viable,” I remind her. “Besides, might be good experience for when you’re negotiating your own lease.”
She gives me a small smile. “Okay. What time?”
“Three. Car will be ready at two-thirty.”
She nods and returns to her research. I watch her for a moment longer, then retreat to my office, closing the door behind me.
Sitting at my desk, I stare at the contract open on my screen without really seeing it. Six months. That was the deal. Clean, efficient, mutually beneficial. We both get what we want, then go our separate ways.
I pull up my calendar, counting the days until the contract expires. Forty-nine.
Forty-nine more days of Ava in my home, in my bed, in my life. Forty-nine days until she takes her settlement and builds her gallery without my help, proving to herself and the ghost of her stepfather that she can succeed on her own terms.
I should be satisfied. The arrangement is working exactly as planned. Better than planned, considering the SEC investigation seems to have been satisfied by our performance.
So why am I contemplating what it would take to convince her to stay?
Fuck. I’m getting sentimental. Dangerous territory for a man in my position.
I close the calendar and force myself to focus on my business. Numbers don’t lie. Numbers don’t develop inconvenient feelings or plan exit strategies.
But as I work, I can’t shake the image of Ava hunched over her laptop, planning her future. A future that, in forty-nine days, will no longer include me.