Page 24 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Dominic

Tatiana heads toward the bedroom, phone in hand. When she tells me it’s Christopher, I have to physically stop myself from following her. Christopher has been blowing up my phone too, but his calls can wait. The situation with my investors can’t.

I watch her close the door behind her, and sigh.

Camilla and Arthur are saying something, but I’m not really listening. The $1.5 billion deal for Serenity Shores Costa Rica flashes before my eyes. My flagship sustainable resort, the project that could redefine eco-luxury development. My legacy. All potentially gone because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants for one fucking weekend in Vegas.

No no, our plan will work. Itwill.

It has to.

My phone buzzes again.

Marco.

Fuck.

I glance at the screen.

His text reads:Dude where are you? Ceremony starts in thirty minutes.

A fresh wave of guilt crashes over me. Today is Marco’s wedding day. I’m supposed to be standing beside him as he gets married, not trapped in a hotel suite managing the fallout from my own disastrous nuptials.

“Dom?” Arthur is saying. “DOMINIC?”

I raise a placating hand. “Give me a second.” I quickly type a response to Marco.

Unforeseen emergency. Sorry.

His reply is almost immediate.Post-wedding jitters of your own?

If only he knew.

Will try to get there as soon as I can,I text back.

Again, instant reply:Bros before hoes.

I shake my head and put my phone away. One more thing to feel like shit about.

“So have you drafted an agreement for Tatiana yet?” I ask, returning my attention to my crisis team.

“Working on it,” Arthur says. “I was just asking if there’s anything else you’d like to include in the preliminary document. I have the length of the agreement set to thirty days, as Tatiana asked for. And I—”

But again I’m only half listening. Thirty days. Thirty days of pretending to be happily married. Thirty days of photo ops and coordinated statements. Thirty days of living with a woman who right now probably hates my guts.

But also thirty days of living with a woman whose body I apparently couldn’t get enough of last night, judging by the hickeys on her neck and the way I’ve been pissing all morning.

I have no real memory of our encounter, which is fucking frustrating. If I’m going to be stuck in this sham marriage, I should at least remember what she feels like. What she tastes like.

A plan begins to form in my mind. If I’m going to pay her a substantial sum to stay temporarily married, why not include some additional benefits for myself?

“Arthur,” I interrupt. “You asked if there’s anything else I’d like to include? I want a personal clause.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What kind of clause?”

“A physical intimacy provision,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “Two encounters, minimum.”

Arthur stares at me. “Mr. Rossi, when I said ‘anything else’ I meant something more along the lines of public appearance schedules, confidentiality clauses, or post-annulment stipulations. I don’t think—”

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