47. Ava
47
Ava
I trace a lazy pattern across Gideon’s empty side of the bed, still warm from where he slept. He’s already gone for his morning workout, leaving behind nothing but rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of his cologne on the pillow.
This bed is going to feel impossibly empty in two weeks. Stop torturing yourself, Ava.
The buzzing of the intercom interrupts my pity party. I wrap myself in Gideon’s discarded dress shirt from yesterday, a habit I should probably break sooner rather than later, and pad to the entryway.
“Package for you, Ms. King. Would you like me to bring it up?” Mark’s friendly voice crackles through the speaker.
“Thank you, Mark.”
I run a hand through my bedhead, not bothering to make myself presentable. The building security staff has seen worse from me over these past six months.
When the elevator dings, Mark appears with a sleek envelope bearing the unmistakable logo of Hoffman, Weiss & Partners. My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.
“Have a good day, Ms. King,” he says with a smile that’s too kind for what we both know is inside this envelope.
Alone again, I stare at the package like it’s a ticking bomb. It’s been almost six months since I signed my name on the marriage certificate, and now here are the papers to undo it all.
Just open it, Ava. You’ve known this was coming since day one.
I tear open the envelope and there they are. Neat, professional documents outlining the clinical dissolution of my marriage. My fake marriage. The one with an expiration date that I stupidly forgot about while falling in love with my temporary husband.
My phone buzzes with a text, mercifully distracting me from my spiral. It’s from my real estate agent.
It’s yours if you want it. Need to know by end of week.
My heart skips. The gallery in Chelsea. The one with the perfect lighting and exposed brick. Mine. Through my own connections, my own negotiations.
I should be jumping up and down. I should be calling Lucy to squeal into the phone. Instead, I’m standing in a penthouse that’s never really been mine, wearing a shirt that’s never really been mine, holding divorce papers in one hand and the text about my dream gallery in the other.
The universe has a twisted sense of timing.
I text back immediately: I’ll take it. Sending deposit today.
The numbers dance in my head as I calculate what I’ve saved from the initial settlement, what I could get from selling those designer dresses hanging in my closet. It’s enough for a down payment, but I’ll still need the remainder of Gideon’s settlement money to buy it outright. The money I earned by playing happy wife for six months.
I glance at the diamond ring on my finger, catching the light in a way that seems almost mocking now.
That’ll fetch a nice price at the pawn shop. One more thing to check off the post-marriage to-do list.
I spend the afternoon in a daze, moving between rooms with purpose but no real direction. In my separate bedroom, the one I haven’t actually slept in for weeks, I finally start sorting through designer clothes, making a mental list of what might sell for a decent price.
Practical. That’s what I need to be. Practical and prepared.
By four o’clock, I’ve inventoried most of the fancy dresses and even started packing a few personal items in boxes. Not to move out early, just to get organized. The divorce papers said two weeks, but there’s no harm in being ready.
The sound of the elevator announces Gideon’s return from work. Earlier than usual. I look up from the designer dress I’m carefully folding, a Valentino he bought me for some charity gala, feeling caught in the act.
“Ava?” His voice carries from the foyer, steady and controlled. Always so controlled.
“In here,” I call back, trying to match his composure and failing miserably as my voice cracks.
He appears in the doorway of my bedroom, his eyes immediately taking in the partially packed boxes, the pile of dresses on the bed, the general disaster zone that is now my living space. His expression shifts so subtly that anyone else might miss it, but I’ve spent six months studying the micro-movements of Gideon King’s face. That tiny furrow between his brows means he’s surprised, maybe even upset.
Don’t read into it. He’s probably just worried about the optics if I move out before the contract ends.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
I busy myself with folding another dress, avoiding his eyes. “Just getting organized. Thought it might be easier this way.”
“Easier,” he repeats, not a question.
“For both of us,” I clarify, my cheeks warming under his steady gaze. “The lawyers sent over the divorce papers today.”
He nods once, sharply, like this is just another business meeting. “I know. I authorized them to proceed with the filing.”
Of course he did. Efficient to the end.
“Well, I’ve got news too,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “I got the gallery space. The one in Chelsea I told you about.”
Something flickers across his face but it’s gone before I can identify it.
“Congratulations,” he says, and I almost believe his sincerity. “That’s exactly what you wanted.”
“It is,” I agree, though the victory feels hollow standing here among my half-sorted life. “I have some money left over from the first installment of the settlement. Between that and selling some things, I’ve got enough for the deposit. The rest will come from the final payment when...” I trail off, unable to say “when we divorce” out loud.
“You don’t need to sell anything, Ava. The full settlement will be enough. ”
I straighten, pride warming my cheeks. “I know. But I want to do as much as I can myself.”
His gaze shifts to the boxes. “You’re not planning to leave before the contract ends, are you?”
“No, of course not,” I say quickly. “I’m just... getting organized. Don’t worry, I’ll stay until the end of the contract. I’m just preparing.”
His shoulders relax slightly, but his expression remains guarded. “Good. Blackwell is still watching. If you suddenly disappeared—”
“I know,” I interrupt, suddenly feeling hollow inside. So I was right. He’s just worried about the optics.
Vanessa’s voice comes back to haunt me. He believes marriage for love is a fairy tale.
“I’m not going anywhere yet. But...” I swallow hard, forcing the words out. “I will be sleeping in here again. Starting tonight.”
This gets a reaction. A slight widening of his eyes, a tightening of his shoulders. “Because?”
My heart hammers so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “Because it makes sense to start now. Two weeks isn’t that long, but it’s enough time to begin... readjusting. To how things will be. After.”
After I’m no longer your wife. After I’m no longer in your life.
He stares at me for a long moment, his gray eyes unreadable. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not about what I want,” I say, the words coming out more sharply than intended. “It’s about what makes sense. This was always going to end, Gideon. We both signed the same contract.”
“With a no emotional involvement clause,” he says, his voice strangely tight.
I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. “Right. That one. Don’t worry, I’m not violating it. This is just... business.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Every moment with him has become an exercise in restraint, in not showing how completely I’ve failed at the one thing our contract explicitly forbade.
His gaze is too intense, too searching. “You don’t have to sleep separately.”
“Yes, I do,” I whisper.
Because staying in your bed, pretending I’m not in love with you for two more weeks would break me completely.
The silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we’re not saying. Finally, Gideon nods once.
“If you need anything, let me know,” he says, retreating to the doorway. “And Ava? Congratulations again on the gallery. You earned it.”
After he leaves, I sink onto the edge of the bed, surrounded by the physical evidence of a life being dismantled. The divorce papers sit on the nightstand, beside my phone with my realtor’s text still on the screen. Success on one side, failure on the other.
That night, I lie awake in my own bed, acutely aware of the wall that separates me from Gideon. It might as well be an ocean. The sheets feel too crisp, too cool, too empty. There’s no warm body beside me, no steady breathing to lull me to sleep. No mind-blowing sex.
I slide my wedding ring off, holding it up in the moonlight that streams through the window. It catches and throws little rainbows across the room, beautiful and temporary, just like everything else in this penthouse.
Two weeks until I’m officially not Ava King anymore.
I slip the ring back on. I can be strong for two more weeks. I can finish what we started and walk away with my pride intact, even if my heart is in pieces.
Because that was always the deal. A marriage of convenience, not love.
It’s not Gideon’s fault I forgot that part.