44. Ava
44
Ava
I ’m sitting in the corner booth of Lucien Bistro, methodically shredding a napkin into confetti while checking my phone for the fourteenth time in eight minutes. My leg bounces under the table with enough force to register on local seismographs.
You’ve faced down New York art critics, Ava. You deal with an unruly billionaire every day. You can handle telling your best friend you’ve been living an elaborate lie for months. No big deal. Just casual Thursday activities.
I can see Diana and Michael, my ever vigilant sentinels of protection, standing watch outside the entrance.
The waiter approaches with a tentative smile. “Another sparkling water while you wait?”
“Actually, I’ll take a glass of whatever wine will make my coming conversation easier,” I say, attempting a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
“The Pinot Noir is excellent for courage,” he offers with unexpected perception .
“Perfect. Bring two glasses. My friend will need it, too.”
As he walks away, I spot Lucy through the window, her honey-blonde hair catching the afternoon sunlight as she checks her phone before entering. She’s wearing one of her power blazers, navy blue with subtle gold buttons, the outfit she reserves for important meetings or emotional emergencies. I texted her with “911 friendship crisis” and she clearly understood the dress code.
The tiny bell above the door jingles as she enters, and I watch her scan the restaurant before her eyes lock with mine. Her concerned expression shifts to a bright smile that doesn’t quite hide her worry.
“There she is,” Lucy announces, sliding into the booth across from me. “The mysterious disappearing artist who’s been too busy with married life to answer half my texts.”
I feel my face heating up immediately. Spontaneous lobster mode activated. Right on schedule.
“Yeah, about that...” I start, but the waiter arrives with our wine, giving me a reprieve.
Lucy watches him pour, then fixes me with her laser-focus gaze the moment he leaves. “Okay, spill. And I don’t mean the wine.”
“At least it’s not champagne!” I giggle nervously.
“Yes, you and champagne, a bad combination,” she agrees.
I take a generous gulp instead of a ladylike sip. The rich, earthy flavor barely registers as I try to find the right words.
“So, you know how you always said I should prepare an elevator pitch for my art career?” I stall.
“Ava.” Lucy’s voice carries that patented ‘cut the crap’ tone she’s perfected since our college days .
“Fine.” I exhale heavily. I glance around conspiratorially and lean in close. As in, my lips are almost touching her right ear close. I drop my voice to the lowest possible volume I think Lucy will be able to hear. “My marriage to Gideon is fake. It’s a business arrangement with an expiration date that’s coming up in less than thirty days.”
Lucy stiffens. I pull back, and watch her process my words, her expression cycling through confusion, disbelief, and settling finally on hurt.
“I’m sorry, what?” Her voice is unnaturally quiet.
I get up and slide in so I’m sitting beside her. Then I cup my hand around her ear and start whispering. The whole story tumbles out of me. Mark Blackwell’s takeover attempt, the trust arrangement, the contract with its neat little “no emotional involvement” clause, the settlement payment. Whispered words pour out like paint from a tipped-over can, impossible to contain once started.
Lucy sits in stunned silence, occasionally taking mechanical sips of wine. I whisper until my mouth is dry, pausing only to rehydrate with Pinot Noir.
“So all this time,” she finally says, her voice tight, “the whirlwind romance, the loving glances, the perfect couple act. You’re telling me—”
I cut her off by raising a finger to my lips. “Shh…” I look around nervously. No one is watching. Everyone else is having conversations in their own little worlds.
She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You’re telling me it was all fake?”
My chest tightens. “That’s the problem,” I whisper back, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “It started that, but somewhere along the way, at least for me, it became real.”
Lucy places her glass down with deliberate care. She grabs my arm, drags me to the lady’s room, and after checking that all the stalls are empty, she lights into me. “Let me get this straight. You entered a fraudulent marriage—”
“Shhh!” I tell her, feeling uncomfortable talking about it aloud even in an empty restroom.
Lucy sighs, then continues softly. “You got married to help a billionaire keep control of his company, and then you fell in love with him for real, despite a contract explicitly forbidding that very thing?”
Put that way, it sounds absolutely ridiculous. I feel my face burning hotter.
“Yes?” I squeak.
“And you didn’t tell me because...?”
“I... was ashamed. Embarrassed. I thought you’d think less of me.”
She studies me a moment. “Ava, I’d never think less of you. You’re my best friend. Why did it take you so long to come to me?”
I drop my gaze. “I guess, well, when I began to develop feelings for him, it made it even harder to come to you. I was afraid that saying it aloud would make those feelings impossible to deny. While they were still in my head and my head alone, I thought I could keep it professional, separate business from emotion. Like he does. I was wrong.”
Lucy’s hurt expression softens slightly.
“You know what the worst part is?” she says.
Here it comes. The ‘Lucy Hammond vote of no confidence’ speech.
“I’m not even surprised that you fell for him,” she continues, stunning me. “What I am surprised about is that you thought you could handle something like this without getting hurt.”
“I didn’t think—”
“Exactly,” she interrupts. “You didn’t think. You, Ava Redwood, who once cried during a commercial for paper towels because ‘the little girl looked so happy cleaning up the spill with her dad.’ You, who pours your entire heart into every canvas you create. You thought you could fake being in love without the real thing sneaking in?”
I stare at her for a moment. “When you put it like that, it sounds pretty stupid.”
“Not stupid. Just...” Lucy sighs. “Wildly optimistic about your ability to compartmentalize emotions.”
A small, slightly hysterical laugh escapes me. “I’ve been painting him, Lucy. And I mean, really painting him. He’s in everything I create now. It’s pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic to fall in love,” she says, her voice gentler now. “Though your timing could use some work.” She pauses. Then: “So you didn’t trust me with this sooner because you thought I’d judge you.”
“It was easier not to talk about it. If I didn’t say anything, I could pretend it wasn’t happening.”
“That’s worked out well,” Lucy says dryly.
“I know, right?” I smile weakly. “Classic Ava disaster management.”
Lucy regards me uncertainly. “Have you considered that maybe you’re not the only one whose feelings have changed?”
I snort, they say, softly. “Gideon? Please. He’s the king of compartmentalization. This arrangement is literally what he wanted.”
“Is it, though?” She tilts her head. “Because from what I’ve seen, he doesn’t look at you like someone fulfilling a business obligation.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the way he looks at you when you’re not watching...” Lucy pauses. “That’s not acting, Ava.”
Don’t do that. Don’t give me hope. False hope is dangerous.
“You’ve seen us, what, three times together?” I counter.
“Six,” Lucy corrects. “Which is sad in and of itself, considering I’m your best friend. Anyway, each time, I’m telling you I saw a man who couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Even when you were across the room talking to someone else. Remember when we were at that gallery opening last month? You were explaining your painting technique to that pretentious curator, and Gideon was supposed to be networking with potential investors?”
I nod, dipping my spoon into the soup.
“He wasn’t networking, Ava. He was watching you the whole time. With this expression...” She searches for words. “Like he couldn’t believe you were real.”
“That’s just...” I start, then falter. Because I’ve seen that look, too, in quiet moments when Gideon thinks I’m absorbed in my painting. I’ve caught glimpses of it in reflections, felt it on my skin when we’re together. But I’ve always convinced myself that I was imagining it, because it always went away when I looked him directly in the eyes.
He guards his feelings well.
“When you called me for this emergency,” Lucy says, “I thought maybe you were going to tell me you were pregnant or moving to Paris or something. I did not expect ‘surprise fake marriage.’ That was the last thing I thought I’d hear. But now that I know, things actually make more sense.”
“How so?”
“The rush. The intensity. The way you both sometimes seem to be having two conversations at once. The one everyone can hear, and another meant just for you two.” She shrugs. “I just thought it was new relationship energy. Turns out it was something else entirely.”
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, unsure I recognize the person staring back. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”
“Maybe,” Lucy concedes. “Or maybe you’re exactly where you need to be.”
I smile wanly. “In a fake marriage that’s about to end?”
“In love with someone who might love you back.”
“He doesn’t—”
“You don’t know that,” Lucy interrupts. “That’s the thing about contracts, Ava. They’re just paper. They can’t actually control feelings.”
My heart does a stupid little flip at her words, which I immediately try to suppress.
“Even if that were true,” I say, “what am I supposed to do? March up to him and announce I’ve broken our agreement by falling in love with him? That would go over so well.”
“Would it be worse than walking away without ever knowing?”
The question lands like a stone in still water, rippling through me.
“The contract may have an expiration date,” Lucy says gently, “but that doesn’t mean your relationship has to end with it.”
I shake my head stubbornly. “You don’t understand him. This contract... like I already told you, it’s what he wanted.”
“Maybe it’s what he thought he wanted,” Lucy corrects. “People change, Ava. Even billionaires with trust issues.”
Takes one damaged person to know another, I guess.
Lucy looks me in the eye. “By the way, you are having sex now, right?”
“Unfortunately,” I tell her.
She nods. “That could explain the emotional attachment.”
“It doesn’t help,” I agree. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this sooner. Like I said, I was too afraid.”
Lucy squeezes my hand. “I get it. I’m not happy about being kept in the dark, but I get it.”
Relief washes through me, unexpected and profound. “So you don’t hate me?”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re the only person who will sit through my three-hour rants about supply chain disruptions in commercial real estate. I’m not about to throw that away.”
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “Your weird obsession with HVAC systems in office buildings is truly the foundation of our friendship.”
“As is your ability to make even the most boring building sketches look like art.” She smiles, then grows serious again. “What are you going to do?”
I push a stray strand of hair away from my eyes. “I don’t know. Probably what I always do. You know, overthink, panic, make questionable decisions, then paint about it afterward.”
“A solid strategy,” Lucy nods solemnly, then breaks into a grin. “Or... you could just talk to him.”
“Yeah, that’s not terrifying at all.”
“Scarier than letting him go without ever knowing?”
Low blow, Hammond. Low blow.
“I’ll think about it,” I concede, which is as close to a commitment as I can manage right now.
“Well, whatever you decide, I’m here for you. Even if your taste in men runs to complicated billionaires with intimacy issues.”
“Says the woman who dated twins without telling them about each other,” I counter.
“That was one time!” she protests, laughing. “And technically, they knew about each other. They just didn’t know they were both dating me.”
We finally leave the restroom. Both of us aren’t feeling very hungry anymore, so we forgo lunch and instead pay for the drinks. We’re still laughing as we gather our things. Outside the restaurant, Lucy pulls me into a tight hug as Diana and Michael watch.
“For what it’s worth,” she whispers, “I think you’d be making a mistake to let this end without fighting for it.”
I hug her back, grateful for her friendship despite my deception. “What if I fight and lose anyway?”
She pulls back, holding me by the shoulders. “Then at least you’ll know you tried. And I’ll be waiting with ice cream and terrible movies to help you through it.”
As we part ways on the sidewalk, Lucy heading back to her office and me toward the piano-black SUV of my security detail, I feel both lighter and heavier. The relief of unburdening myself is real, but so is the weight of the decision now looming before me.
Fight for something that was never supposed to be real in the first place, or walk away with my dignity and heart intact?
The SUV beckons, dark and uninviting, much like the uncertainty ahead of me. But for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel completely alone in facing it.
As I reach the door, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Gideon.
I’m calling an emergency meeting. Blackwell is planning to trigger the deadlock provision.
I text him back. I thought the asset trust protects against that?
Yes. Unless he’s found a loophole we don’t know about.
Looks like I’ll be busy on corporate stuff all night again. I guess I should be grateful for the distraction. But I know it just means I’ll put off having a serious conversation with him about us.
Yet again.