Page 16 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

The way he says it stings more than it should. Like it’s the apocalypse or something. Which I suppose it is.

What did you expect, Tatiana? That he’d be thrilled to wake up accidentally hitched to his friend’s secretary?

“Well, don’t worry,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We can get this annulled. Today. Right now.” I search for my phone, finding it on the floor beside what I assume are my clothes from last night.

“Annulment. Right.” Dom sits up again. “That’s the logical step.”

“Exactly.” I start gathering my scattered belongings. My shorts, my red tank top, one shoe... “We need to fix this before anyone finds out.”

Dom reaches for his own phone. “Too late for that.”

He turns the screen toward me. It’s a tabloid website. The headline screams:“ROSSI’S VEGAS WEDDING: BILLIONAIRE DEVELOPER TIES KNOT IN SURPRISE CEREMONY.”

Beneath it is a blurry photo of us stumbling out of what must be the wedding chapel, my arm around his waist, his lips pressed to my temple. We look hammered but ecstatically happy.

“Oh god.” My legs give out, and I sink onto the edge of the bed. “This can’t be happening.”

My phone buzzes in my hand. Then again. And again. A cascade of notifications already floods the screen. Texts from Sabrina, Jess, Amara. Missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize. And most terrifying of all, an email from Christopher Blackwell with the subject line: “Contact me immediately.”

“I’m going to be fired,” I whisper. “Christopher is going to fire me.”

Dom pushes himself out of bed, seemingly unconcerned with his own nudity as he paces. “Christopher won’t fire you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice cracking. “This job is everything to me. I’ve worked so hard to build a reputation for professionalism and competence, and now I’m going to be known as the secretary who got drunk in Vegas and married the billionaire.”

Just another gold-digging secretary. That’s what everyone will think. Not that you worked your ass off for years, putting yourself through school, climbing your way up from nothing.

“Hey.” Dom’s voice softens as he sits beside me. “Nobody’s going to think that.”

I glare at him. “You know whatsocietypeople are like... that’s exactly what they’ll think. I’ll never work in Manhattan again.”

He frowns, then reaches for his underwear and pulls them on. Small mercies.

“Look,” he says, “we just need to be strategic about this. We’ll get the annulment, but we need to control the narrative.” He runs a hand through his hair again, a gesture I’m starting to recognize as his thinking mode. “My PR team can spin this. We’ll say it was a misunderstanding, or a joke that went too far.”

“A joke?” I repeat. “Our marriage is a joke to you?”

Why are you offended? You want this annulled as badly as he does.

Dom sighs. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

The silence stretches between us, filled with the weight of our catastrophic error in judgment. My head pounds, a brutal reminder of last night’s excess.

“I need water,” I mutter, standing on shaky legs. “And aspirin. And possibly a time machine.”

“Bathroom should have both. Except the time machine.” Dom gestures toward a door. “There’s probably a robe in there too.”

I shuffle to the bathroom, which is predictably palatial. Marble everywhere, a shower big enough for a basketball team, and a tub that could qualify as a small pool. I find the aspirin in a cabinet and gulp down two pills with tap water.

When I return to the bedroom, Dom is on the phone, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. He’s put on pajama pants at least.

“No, Arthur, I understand the implications... Yes, I know... No, I’m not... Look, just stall them until I can... Right. Thanks.”

He hangs up, looking grim.

“Problems in billionaire land?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

“You could say that.” He sinks into a chair.

---