Page 118 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Focus, Tatiana. This is business.

“Of course,” I respond, matching his professional tone. “I’ve reviewed the eastern wing revisions as requested.”

“Good. I’ve made some adjustments to your proposal that I believe address the structural concerns I mentioned yesterday regarding the solar panel installation.”

I pull up the document he’s referencing, scanning the changes quickly. My blood pressure rises with each modification I see. He’s completely gutted my efficiency improvements, reverting to a design that will cost at least 15% more and take weeks longer to implement.

Stay calm. Focus. Breathe.

“I see the changes,” I say carefully. “However, I’m concerned that these revisions compromise the sustainability goals we established for the project.”

There’s a pause, and I can almost feel the temperature drop through the phone line.

“The sustainability goals remain intact,” Dom responds, his voice clipped. “What’s been adjusted is the implementation timeline to ensure proper foundation work.”

“With all due respect,” I continue, emboldened by his dismissal, “the foundation team already approved my approach. These changes seem... arbitrary.”

Another pause, longer this time.

What are you doing, Tatiana? Poking the bear is never a good idea. Especially while another of his employees is on the line.

But I can’t stop myself. Something about his cold detachment after our moments of genuine connection has unleashed a reckless streak in me.

“Arbitrary?” he repeats, the word dangerously soft.

“Yes,” I push on. “The data clearly supports my original timeline. The adjustments you’ve made appear to be more about control than actual improvement.”

I hear Eleanor’s sharp intake of breath on the line.

“I think perhaps we should table this discussion,” Dom says, his voice tight. “Eleanor, please schedule a private meeting for later today where Mrs. Rossi and I can discuss this more thoroughly.”

“Of course, Mr. Rossi,” Eleanor replies quickly.

“That won’t be necessary,” I interject. “I’m perfectly capable of discussing this now, unless there’s some reason you’re uncomfortable having this conversation with Eleanor present?”

Stop. Talking. Now.

But the words keep coming, fueled by hurt and frustration.

“Or is this just another example of your emotional unavailability? Shutting down whenever something gets too personal?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve crossed a line.

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Eleanor,” Dom finally says, his voice eerily calm, “please excuse us for a moment.”

“Of course, sir,” she responds, and I hear the click as she disconnects.

Then it’s just Dom and me on the line, the tension crackling between us.

“What thefuckdo you think you’re doing?” he asks, his voice low, barely controlled.

Heat rushes to my face. “Expressing a professional opinion about a project I’ve been working on.”

“Bullshit. This isn’t about the project.”

“Isn’t it?” I challenge. “Or is it that you can’t handle someone questioning your authority? Especially someone you’ve been sleeping with?”

“We’ll discuss this at home,” he says, the finality in his tone making it clear the conversation is over.

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