Page 167 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Is she safe?

His response comes immediately.Yes, sir. At Blackwell Innovations all day. Security in place.

Relief washes through me, followed by resolve. I’ve taken the first steps today. Changed how I run my company. Sent her the settlement. Apologized fully and honestly.

It might not be enough. It probably isn’t. But it’s a start.

Tomorrow, I’ll take more steps. And the day after. And every day until I become the kind of man who would never betray someone he loves.

Whether Tatiana ever forgives me or not, I owe her that much.

My phone buzzes with a text. My heart leaps, but it’s only Eleanor.

Your 2 PM with the Costa Rica development team is confirmed.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly.

One step at a time.

One day at a time.

The man who betrayed Tatiana Cole is not who I want to be anymore.

45

Tatiana

Istare at the spreadsheet on my monitor, trying to focus on the numbers instead of the hollow feeling in my chest. It’s been three days since I signed the annulment papers. Three days since I officially began the process of erasing Dominic Rossi from my life.

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I adjust the projections for the boutique hotel chain’s operational efficiency proposal. Christopher wants this ready by end of day, and I refuse to let my personal disaster affect my performance. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that competence is an emotional shield.

Thank God for the routine of my everyday work at Blackwell Innovations. While my personal life has been a high-speed train wreck, my executive suite desk remains blissfully unchanged. The same ancient printer that makes death rattles before functioning, Christopher’s office tucked away in the back, and my meticulously organized workspace that has been my sanctuary through this entire billionaire-marriage fiasco.

And best of all? I can actually leave the building at lunch without a security detail materializing from the lobby like well-dressed ninjas.

I roll my shoulders, savoring the freedom of my morning commute today. Walking into a coffee shop on my own, ordering, and leaving without two suits monitoring the exits. Running an errand after work on Friday without explaining my itinerary to anyone with an earpiece.

Freedom! Sweet, glorious freedom! No more Nichols asking if I need anything while I’m buying tampons. No more Franks standing guard outside restaurant bathrooms like I might escape through the plumbing or be kidnapped mid-pee. No more explaining to strangers that “No, I’m not famous, my husband’s just rich and paranoid.”

Still, there’s a strange emptiness to this freedom. Like the weird phantom sensation of a ring you’ve worn for years and suddenly removed.

Like my own wedding ring, which once sat on my finger, now lying tucked away in my apartment nightstand.

I couldn’t bring myself to toss it, odd as that sounds. I guess a part of me can’t believe my marriage is really over. Even though I always knew it would end. I signed a contract to that effect, after all.

The contract. Stop thinking about it.

Abouthim.

I check my watch. 1:15 PM. My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast. Again.

Because who needs actual nutrition when you can subsist on coffee and emotional trauma?

My phone buzzes with a text from Sabrina.How’s work? Still coming over for wine and whining tonight?

I smile despite myself. My girls have been relentless the past few days, refusing to let me spiral. Friday night was tequila (bad idea). Saturday was movies and ice cream (worse idea—watchingThe Notebookwhile emotionally compromised should be classified as self-harm). Sunday was brunch and shopping therapy that my credit card is still recovering from.

Yes to wine,I text back.But maybe less whining tonight? Trying this new thing called “emotional stability.”

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