Page 28 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“The jet is fueled and waiting,” Camilla says. “We’d like to have you both back in New York by evening if possible. The sooner we can establish the official narrative, the better.”

Private jet. Of course. Is this my life now?

“I need to get my things from the other hotel,” I say. “And talk to my friends.”

Dom nods. “Jake can accompany you.”

“Jake?”

“Head of security,” he explains. “The press is already camping downstairs. You’ll need protection.”

The word ‘protection’ sends an unexpected shiver through me. I ignore it.

“Fine. But I’m not leaving Vegas until I have the revised agreement and the advance in my account.”

Dom’s lips curve slightly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out if I’ve just been insulted or complimented. His dark eyes reveal nothing.

“Laptop, please?” I ask Arthur.

The lawyer arches an eyebrow. “Why?”

“So I can enter my account number...”

He loads up a text editor and tilts the laptop my way. I enter my account information.

“Also,” Dom continues. “I’d like you to accompany me to Marco’s wedding reception before our flight. I promised I’d drop in. It will be a chance to make our first public appearance and present a unified front.”

“Whatever, but I need clothes,” I say, glancing down at my bathrobe. “Unless you expect me to meet with your security team like this?”

Dom gestures toward the walk-in closet. “Help yourself to whatever fits. The hotel staff brought up some options while you were on the phone.”

I cross to the closet and find an assortment of designer clothes of varying sizes, the tags still attached. The casual way wealth flows around Dom is disorienting.

Just another day in billionaire land. “Oh, you need clothes? Here’s ten thousand dollars’ worth of designer threads I conjured from thin air. Sorry if half of them don’t fit.”

“Thank you,” I manage. “I’ll change and be ready to go shortly.”

Arthur and Camilla take that as their cue to step out, murmuring about finalizing documents and coordinating logistics.

Dom lingers.

“We should probably discuss the... parameters of Clause 7b,” he says when we’re alone.

My stomach flip-flops. “What’s to discuss?” I snap. “You want two sexual encounters. You’re paying for them. You see me as little more than a glorified sex toy. End of story.”

His eyes flash. “I don’t want you to feel coerced, Tatiana.”

“Then maybe don’t put sex acts in a legal contract,” I shoot back.

“Would you prefer I remove the clause?” he asks unexpectedly.

I hesitate, and I hate myself for it. The truth is, despite my outrage, part of me is curious. What would it be like to be with Dom again, this time without drugs blurring the experience? The marks on my neck suggest it was pretty damn good the first time.

You’re actually considering this? What happened to never being vulnerable again?

Then again, the clause only stipulates his ‘release.’ Which means there’s no actual requirement for me to fuck me. I can give him oral and be done with it.

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