Page 117 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Three days until our little marriage experiment concludes. Three days until Dom gets his freedom back from the impulsive decision we made in Vegas. Three days until I pack up my perfectly organized temporary existence in this penthouse and return to my real life.

I’ll ever only see his gorgeous, infuriating face in passing when he comes to visit Christopher.

Assuming he drops by during work hours ever again.

Ah, shit.

To add insult to injury, we haven’t had sex since before he got sick.

Not that I’m counting or anything.

Except you totally are, Tatiana. You’re practically marking the days off on a sex calendar.

I tap my pen against my lower lip, staring at my computer screen without really seeing it. Christopher is in back-to-back meetings all morning, which means I should be catching up on emails or finalizing his schedule for next week. Instead, I’m replaying Dom’s behavior on an endless loop.

The way he looked at me when I took care of him during his fever. Vulnerable. Almost... grateful.

And then how quickly he shut down the next day. The cutting remarks about my resort project work. Taking that call from his ex right in front of me.

It’s whiplash-inducing. One minute we’re having incredible sex and I’m nursing him back to health, the next he’s treating me like I’m barely worth acknowledging.

Classic billionaire mood swing. Should come with a warning label.

The logical part of my brain, which is the dominant part, usually, knows this is for the best. We’re temporary. Contractually obligated to part ways in three days. Getting emotionally entangled would be disastrous.

Yet here I am, sitting at my pristine desk at Blackwell Innovations, unable to focus because I’m obsessing over a man who clearly wants nothing more to do with me.

A text notification pops up on my phone. It’s from Eleanor Vance, Dom’s executive assistant.

Mr. Rossi requests your presence for a 12:15pm conference call regarding the Serenity Shores eastern wing revisions. Calendar invite sent.

Well, at least it’s during my lunch break. He has at least a modicum of respect for my work here with Christopher.

I check my email and, sure enough, there’s the invitation. My first instinct is to decline. Why would I want to subject myself to more Dom criticism?

But something else stirs inside me. Something that feels suspiciously like defiance.

You know what? Screw this.

If Dom wants to play it cool, I can play too. But I’m done being the docile temp wife who takes his emotional distance lying down.

I accept the invitation and spend the next hour meticulously preparing for the call. I review every detail of my eastern wing proposal, compile additional data supporting my approach, and even draft potential counterarguments to any criticism he might raise. I know I should be concentrating on Christopher’s tasks, but I can’t. I’m far too distracted.

Far too pissed off at Dom.

By the time 12:15 rolls around, I’m armed and dangerous. Well, with spreadsheets and facts anyway.

I dial into the conference line with exactly thirty seconds to spare.

Professional punctuality is supposed to be my superpower, after all.

“Mrs. Rossi, thank you for joining us,” Eleanor’s voice comes through first. “Mr. Rossi is just connecting.”

“Thank you, Eleanor,” I reply, keeping my tone neutrally pleasant. “And please, call me Tatiana.”

There’s a click, and then Dom’s deep voice fills my ear. “Eleanor, Tatiana, I trust we’re ready to proceed?”

The formal, detached way he says my name makes my teeth clench. This is the same man who had his tongue between my thighs not that long ago, and now he sounds like we’re barely acquaintances.

---