Page 34 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“They’re professionals, not stalkers.”

As the jet begins taxiing, I notice her gripping the armrests tightly. “Not a fan of flying?”

“Not a fan of not being in control,” she says, then gives a short laugh. “Something we apparently have in common.”

I smile despite myself. “Thirty days, Tatiana. Then you can go back to controlling your own life all you want.”

“Thirty days,” she echoes, her eyes finding mine. “Let’s see if we survive each other that long.”

The look we exchange is charged with something neither of us is ready to name.

Thirty days of pretending.

Thirty days of proximity.

And in less than forty-eight hours, the first fulfillment of Clause 7b.

God help us both.

10

Tatiana

The elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, revealing a wide shared hallway. Dom’s head of security, Jake, steps out first, scanning the space with practiced efficiency.

“All clear, Mrs. Rossi,” he says, gesturing for me to exit.

I step into the hallway, my small suitcase trailing behind me. “Just Tatiana is fine.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rossi.”

So that’s going well.

We reach a set of imposing double doors at the end of the hallway. Jake produces a key card, swipes it, and pushes the door open.

“Welcome to Mr. Rossi’s residence,” he announces, as if introducing me to a small country rather than an apartment.

The word “apartment” doesn’t begin to cover it. Dom’s Tribeca penthouse unfolds before me like something from an architectural magazine spread. All clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, and tasteful, expensive-looking modern art pieces.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, immediately regretting the slip when Jake raises an eyebrow.

Professional, Tatiana. Remember, you’re supposed to be the billionaire’s sophisticated wife, not some wide-eyed tourist at the Met. Besides, you’ve been to Christopher’s apartment often enough. It’s not so different.

“Your suite is this way,” Jake says, leading me through the open-concept living area.

Suite. Of course. Normal people have rooms; billionaires have suites.

The guest suite is roughly the size of my entire apartment, with a king-sized bed that looks like it could comfortably sleep a basketball team. The bathroom has a shower big enough for... activities I’m not going to think about right now.

Jake sets my suitcase by the bed. “Mr. Rossi wanted me to inform you that Mr. Holloway, the estate manager, will be available should you need anything.”

“Estate manager. Right.” I nod like this is completely normal. “Thank you, Jake.”

When he leaves, I sink onto the edge of the bed and let out a long breath. The mattress feels like it’s cradling me, probably with some space-age memory foam that costs a small fortune.

Don’t get used to it. You’re just temporarily living with your fake billionaire husband in his luxury penthouse while security guards watch your every move.

I should unpack, but that feels too... permanent. Instead, I pull out my laptop and open it on the pristine desk by the window. The view of Manhattan from up here is surreal. I can see the Hudson River glittering in the distance, the skyscrapers spreading out around it like dominoes.

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