Page 1 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Prologue

Tatiana

2 years ago...

My palms are sweaty against the satin of my dress. It’s a classic A-line that cost three months of savings but looks like it set me back six. The perfect budget-conscious bridal dress.

Look at you, Tatiana. So efficient. You’ve color-coded the seating chart, triple-confirmed with catering, and even managed to get your mother and future mother-in-law to agree on the centerpieces. Gold star for you.

The chapel smells like lilies and that specific scent of old wood polished to a high shine. My stomach churns slightly, but I blame it on the fact that I couldn’t manage more than two bites of toast this morning.

Pre-wedding jitters are normal. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. The fact that I’ve spent the past three hours mentally rehearsing my vows while simultaneously running through worst-case scenarios is also normal.

Probably.

“You look beautiful, sweetie,” my mother says, fussing with my veil for the seventeenth time. Her hands smell like the lavender lotion she’s worn since I was a child. Familiar. Loving.

“Thanks, Mom.” My voice comes out steady. Professional. The same voice I use when fielding calls for my boss Christopher Blackwell. The voice I use to ensure only the worthy get through to his sacred calendar.

I suppress a laugh at that mental image. My recently-married boss... it’s all just a show. Billionaires are no better than anyone else. They might strut around like peacocks with platinum feathers, acting like they’re some special breed of human that evolved past the rest of us mere mortals, but deep down, they’re just as flawed and messy as everyone else. They have fears. They have hurts. Just... different fears and hurts. Like worrying their yacht might be six feet shorter than their rival’s, or the heartbreak of their favorite private chef being pounded by a rival tech mogul.

The bridal room is small but tasteful. Like everything else about this wedding, it represents the best possible outcome on a firmly middle-class budget. I’ve spreadsheet-ed this whole affair into submission.

Wedding planning: like being a personal assistant, but for your own life event.

And unpaid, at that.

I check my watch. Five minutes until showtime.

My best friend Sabrina pokes her head in. “You ready? Everyone’s seated.”

“I was born ready,” I say with a smile that feels both genuine and slightly manic. “How’s Rylan looking? Handsome and terrified?”

Something flickers across her face. “I haven’t seen him yet. I’m sure he’s with the groomsmen.”

“Right.” I nod, ignoring the tiny pinprick of unease. “Of course.”

Rylan should be here by now.

Probably stuck in traffic or, knowing him, dealing with a last-minute boutonnière crisis. He’s always running slightly behind, which makes us perfectly balanced. You know, me perpetually early, him charmingly late.

No no, he’s with the groomsmen. Of course he is. Yes, that’s it.

The wedding coordinator appears, clipboard in hand, all business.

“It’s time,” she says briskly.

I nod nervously. “Wait, is Rylan—”

“He’s waiting for you!” she says curtly.

My heart leaps for joy and I sigh in relief. Thank god. The rational part of my brain knew he wouldn’t bail, but the irrational part, the side of me that stayed up until 3 AM last night cataloging every possible wedding disaster from rain to food poisoning to spontaneous chapel combustion, that part needed confirmation.

See? You’ve been catastrophizing for nothing. The man loves you. Now go out there and get yourself legally bound to him before he comes to his senses.

My father takes my arm. He smells like aftershave and emotion. “I’m proud of you, Tati.”

I swallow hard and nod. Words are suddenly difficult.

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