Page 119 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“Fine,” I reply coolly. “I look forward to it.”

The line goes dead.

I sit back in my chair, heart racing, a mixture of dread and exhilaration coursing through me. What the hell have I just done?

Well, that’s one way to get his attention. Contradicting him and calling him emotionally unavailable in front of one of his employees?

Nicely done, Tatiana.

Part of me feels victorious. Another part is already calculating how many boxes I’ll need to pack my things when this inevitably blows up in my face. Though honestly, what “things” am I even talking about? The designer wardrobe I’ve accumulated since cashing that advance check? The pretentious Cartier watch that cost more than my first car?

Look at you, Temporary Mrs. Billionaire, acting like you’ve moved in when your actual personal possessions are still sitting in that overnight bag you never unpacked.

It’s true. I never fully unpacked. Why would I, when I always knew this marriage came with a timer?

Still, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss those obscenely expensive pantsuits and that silky bedding that feels like sleeping on a cloud.

Apparently money can’t buy happiness, but it can certainly buy Egyptian cotton with an astronomical thread count.

My phone pings with a text from my boss Christopher:Need you in the Thompson meeting in 5.

Work.

Right.

I still have arealjob to do, regardless of whatever drama I’ve just stirred up with my temporary husband.

I straighten my blazer, take a deep breath, and push thoughts of Dom to the back of my mind.

Professional Tatiana is back in control.

At least until I have to go home tonight.

God I’m dreading it.

The penthouse isquiet when I arrive just after seven fifteen. I spent an extra hour and a half at work pretending to be productive while actually just rearranging paper clips into geometric patterns. My dinner consisted of a sad desk salad from that place Christopher ‘s wife swears is “life-changing,” but the only life change I experienced was wondering how anyone charges $22 for wilted lettuce and three cherry tomatoes.

Eventually, even I couldn’t justify reorganizing the coffee pods by roast intensity, so I surrendered to fate and had my security detail take me home. The Manhattan traffic was predictably bad. Nothing like crawling ten blocks in forty-five minutes to really marinate in your own bad decisions.

I kick off my heels by the door, rolling my neck to release the tension that’s been building all afternoon. No sign of Dom.

Maybe he’s still at the office. Or maybe he’s avoiding you after your little performance.

That would actually be... kinda good? Maybe?

I pad toward the guest suite, intent on changing into something more comfortable before figuring out where Dom is hiding.

“Tatiana.”

His voice stops me in my tracks. Dom stands in the doorway of his home office, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He looks tired. And irritated.

He coughs suddenly, quietly, a residual effect of the flu he had.

“Dom,” I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. “I didn’t think you were home yet.”

“Clearly.” He pushes away from the doorframe, moving toward me with deliberate steps. “We need to talk about that call today.”

I lift my chin slightly. “Oh? What about it?”

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