Page 21 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Well, don’t hold back there, buddy. Tell us how you really feel about being hitched to little old me.

For someone who supposedly found me attractive enough to marry twelve hours ago, he sure seems repulsed by the idea now. Maybe the drug goggles have worn off and he’s just now noticing he accidentally married a solid seven on a good day instead of his usual runway model.

“I still need to think about this,” I blurt out angrily.

Dom stares at me, those dark eyes unreadable. “There’s a lot at stake here, Tatiana.”

“Yes, there is,” I snap. “My entire life, for starters.”

Camilla steps between us. “Perhaps we should discuss the practical aspects. You’d need to maintain appearances. Attend certain events together, coordinate public statements. We can manage most of it with minimal disruption to your regular life.”

Minimal disruption.As if pretending to be married to one of New York’s most famous businessmen could ever be “minimal.”

“What about my job?” I ask. “I work for Christopher Blackwell. Dom’s friend.”

Arthur nods. “We’re aware. Mr. Blackwell has already been contacted.”

My heart stops. “What did he say?”

“He’s... processing the information,” Dom replies carefully.

Translation: He thinks I’ve lost my mind or I’m trying to sleep my way to the top. Fantastic.

“And living arrangements?” I press, trying to think like the organized professional I am, not the panicking woman I feel like.

“We’ll need visible cohabitation,” Camilla says. “You’ll have to move into Dominic’s Tribeca residence.”

The idea of spending nights in Dominic Rossi’s home makes my stomach flutter in ways I refuse to examine. I think of my tiny apartment in Queens, the one I was so proud to afford on my own. Will I have to give it up?

“This is crazy,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

“We’ll need to prepare a statement for the press,” Camilla redirects. “Something romantic but not overly specific.”

My head spins with the rapid shifts in conversation. One minute we’re discussing my life for the next month, the next we’re back to PR strategy.

I need air. Space. Time to process. But reporters are camped outside, and I’m trapped in this suite with these people making decisions about my life.

You’ve survived worse, Tatiana. Remember standing alone at that altar? At least this time you’re not the one being abandoned.

Oh, but Iwillbe abandoned, in the end.

But at least I’ll be well-compensated.

Or that’s the plan, anyway.

The thought brings little comfort as Arthur begins drafting what he calls “terms of engagement” on his laptop. They discuss me as if I’m a business asset to be managed, not a person whose life has just been upended.

My phone buzzes with a call from Christopher. According to the logs, it’s the third this morning.

I can’t avoid him forever.

“I need to take this,” I announce, rising.

Dom looks up sharply. “Christopher?”

“Uh huh.”

He frowns. “What are you going to tell him?”

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