Page 26 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

The document on the tablet’s screen is titled “Temporary Marital Arrangement and Confidentiality Agreement.”

Sexy title. Nothing says romance like legally binding contracts.

“Thirty days,” I confirm, taking the tablet. “And then we annul this whole thing?”

“Precisely,” Camilla says. “The timeline aligns with your request. You’ll only need to maintain appearances as a couple during that period.”

I start scanning the document, grateful for my business degree as I navigate the dense legalese. Standard confidentiality clauses. Mutual non-disparagement provisions. Media appearance schedules.

“What about compensation?” I ask without looking up.

The room goes quiet. I can feel Dom watching me.

“We’ve included a reasonable settlement,” Arthur says smoothly. “Page four, section 3B.”

I scroll to the section and nearly choke.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

“Is that not acceptable?” Dom asks, a hint of challenge in his tone.

I think of Sabrina’s advice:Ask for more money. You have all the power here.

“It’s a starting point,” I say, mimicking the tone I’ve heard Christopher use in countless negotiations.

Dom’s eyebrow lifts slightly, but I’m already scrolling through the rest of the document. And that’s when I see it.

Clause 7b: Personal Comfort Provision.

My eyes widen as I scan the paragraph and heat floods my cheeks. The legal language is carefully crafted, but the meaning is unmistakable. I’m expected to provide Dom with “personal comfort and physical attentiveness leading to his satisfaction” on two specific dates during our arrangement.

The bastard wants scheduled sex.

I slowly raise my eyes from the tablet, fury bubbling up like hot lava.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet as I turn the tablet around. “Clause 7b?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably, but Dom meets my gaze steadily.

“It ensures the appearance of marital intimacy,” he says with infuriating calm. “Should anyone question the authenticity of our relationship.”

The cologne he’s wearing, that woodsy, expensive scent, suddenly feels cloying in my nostrils.

“So your solution is scheduled blowjobs?” I hiss.

Stay professional. Don’t throw the tablet at his perfect face.

Camilla winces. “Perhaps we should leave you two to discuss this privately—”

“No need,” I cut her off. “I think we should be perfectly clear about what’s being proposed here.”

I stand, letting the bathrobe swish dramatically around my legs. My heart hammers in my chest, but I force my voice to remain level.

“Let me make sure I understand, Mr. Rossi. Not only do you expect me to put my life on hold for thirty days, live in your home, and pretend to be madly in love with you in public, you also want guaranteed sexual services? Once on day two. Another on day fourteen.”

Dom’s jaw tightens. “The clause simply establishes parameters for maintaining the illusion of a genuine relationship.”

“Parameters?” I laugh, the sound brittle in the tense room. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

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