Page 108 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“Change of subject,” I announce firmly, though my cheeks are burning. “Sabrina, how’s that new client of yours? The one with the tequila brand?”

And mercifully, we move on to safer topics, though Jess keeps shooting me suggestive looks whenever I take a sip of my drink.

And so, for a few hours, surrounded by my friends, I almost forget about the ticking clock.

Almost.

When I returnto the penthouse just after 1 PM, the place is eerily quiet. Usually Dom works from his home office on Sundays, the faint sound of his voice on business calls a constant background hum.

Today, silence.

I kick off my heels with a sigh of relief, wiggling my toes against the cool marble floors. Maybe he went out. Or to the office today.

Good, that means I can have the place to myself for a while.

I’m halfway to the guest suite when I hear it. A rough, hacking cough coming from the living room.

Please don’t be a burglar. Although honestly, what kind of burglar announces their presence with tuberculosis?

And besides, Dom’s security team would’ve already had any intruders subdued and sprawled spread-eagle on the floor.

Maybe it’s staff? Antoine?

I peek around the corner to find Dom draped across the white leather sofa, his normally immaculate appearance completely disheveled. His hair stands up in odd directions, his face is flushed, and he’s surrounded by a fortress of documents and his laptop despite looking like death warmed over.

“You’re sick,” I state the obvious, hovering in the doorway.

He glances up, his eyes glassy with fever. “Just busy. Resort plans won’t review themselves.”

Another coughing fit overtakes him, and he clutches his chest like it physically pains him. When it subsides, he tries to straighten, but I can see the effort it takes.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Walk away, Tatiana. He doesn’t want you here anyway. This is not your problem. In five days, you’ll never have to see this stubborn man again.

But instead of listening to that voice of self-preservation, I find myself moving toward him. I press the back of my hand against his forehead before he can protest.

“Jesus, Dom. You’re burning up.”

“It’s nothing.” He swats my hand away weakly. “Just need to finish these specs for the—”

“For the eastern wing. I know. But they’ll still be there after you’ve rested.” I close his laptop firmly and set it on the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” He scowls, though the effect is somewhat diminished by how absolutely wrecked he looks.

“Taking care of you, apparently.” I gather the scattered papers into a neat stack. “When’s the last time you had medicine? Or water, for that matter?”

“Don’t need it.”

“Right, because dehydration really enhances cognitive function.”

I march to the kitchen and fill a glass with water, then raid the medicine cabinet. I find some Tylenol and bring everything back to the living room. Dom has slouched further into the couch, his eyes closed, his breathing labored.

He looks... vulnerable. Not at all like the commanding billionaire who controls every room he enters.

It’s unnerving to see him this way.

“Here.” I nudge his shoulder. “Take these.”

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