Page 102 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

That thought hits me as I wake up, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom.

Six fucking days until this whole arrangement with Tatiana ends.

Fuuuuuuck.

I roll over, reaching for her instinctively, but my hand meets cold sheets. Right. She left again last night, slipping away after we both came down from the high of fucking each other senseless.

It’s been the same pattern every night this week. Sex that blows my mind, followed by her quiet departure back to the guest suite. Like she’s determined to maintain some kind of boundary between us despite the fact that I’m still inside her only minutes before she leaves.

Smart woman. Smarter than me, maybe.

I should be relieved. This is exactly what I wanted, right? A clean break when the thirty days are up. No complications. No messy feelings. Just a business arrangement that served its purpose.

So why does it bother me so much when she slides out of my bed?

I grab my phone from the nightstand. Seven-thirty. I’ve already missed my usual five AM workout. Shit. That’s what happens when you stay up half the night thinking about your temporary wife’s curvy body wrapped around your waist.

The supplier issue Tatiana handled still nags at me as I shower. Her initiative impressed me, no question. Finding GreenFrame and securing a deal that actually improves our timeline? Brilliant. But the way she went behind my back, making decisions without consulting me first...

Who am I kidding? I’m not actually pissed about that. I’m pissed that she handled something perfectly that I should have been on top of myself. But I’ve just been so distracted lately.

Nico’s bullshit demands.

The financing close.

Her.

Worse, her stepping in only proved just how fucking capable she is.

It would be easier if she was just eye candy. Just the convenient temp wife I could dismiss when the contract ends.

But she’s so much more than that.

And that fucking terrifies me.

By the time I’m dressed, Tatiana has already left for work. She’s been rising earlier than usual, probably to avoid awkward morning-after conversations. I can’t blame her. What’s there to say? “Thanks for the orgasms, see you tonight for more?”

Still, it’s a Saturday. Normally she doesn’t work Saturday. But I guess with the looming deadline, she’s decided to pull overtime shifts. For extra distance, I guess.

For me, however, a Saturday is just like any other day... a work day.

My phone buzzes, distracting me.

A text from Nico.

I feel the sharp burn of guilt before I even read the text.

It’sthe end of the week. Did you get my money?

Seeinghis actual words makes the guilt vanish, replaced by anger.

That backstabbing, betraying little...

But I remind myself he’s entitled to treat me however he wants, courtesy of my fucking cowardice all those years ago.

I text him back:Working on it. Deal in critical stage. Can’t discuss now. Will have Arthur circle back.

Then I send a quick text to Arthur Sterling:Draft something non-committal to show Nico we’re “working on it.” Tell him funds are tied up until closing, impossible before then. Something along those lines, with a legalese spin.

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