Page 35 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

My fingers hover over the keyboard. The notification that arrived during our flight is still there: “Transfer complete: $100,000.”

One hundred thousand dollars.

In my account.

Right now.

My stomach flips as I log into my banking app and confirm the balance. There it is, a six-figure sum that makes my usual account balance look like pocket change.

Don’t freak out. It’s just money. Lots and lots of money that you earned by... getting accidentally married to a billionaire and agreeing to suck his dick twice.

I shake the thought away and get to work. This isn’t a windfall; it’s compensation. Security. And I’m going to treat it that way.

Within twenty minutes, I’ve researched and opened a high-yield savings account with a reputable online bank. I transfer most of the advance into it, labeling it simply “T. Cole - Reserve.” Next, I divide another chunk between two Certificates of Deposit... one six-month, one annual. The remaining portion I keep liquid for immediate needs.

Like clothing that doesn’t scream “aspiring executive” but rather “established power player.”

I open tabs for Net-a-Porter and Bergdorf Goodman. If I’m playing billionaire’s wife, I need to look the part. But on my terms. No frilly dresses or trophy wife nonsense.

I select several impeccably tailored pantsuits and structured sheath dresses in navy, charcoal, and black.

Battle gear for the world’s most bizarre temporary job.

The prices make me wince despite the advance. Six hundred dollars for a blouse? Two thousand for a blazer? But I click “confirm order” and select next-day delivery anyway.

You’re investing in yourself, not just playing dress-up for Dom.

My phone buzzes with a text from the man himself, who had his driver take him directly from the airport to his main downtown office for more ‘strategy sessions’ with his legal team.

Camilla will be at the penthouse at 3pm tomorrow. Be prepared.

No “please.” No “thank you.” Just a command.

Tomorrow will have to be a work from home day, then. Christopher will understand.

I text back:I’ll be there.

I pause, then add:Do I need to bring anything besides my winning personality?

His response comes quickly:That might be asking too much.

I actually laugh out loud.

Did Dominic Rossi just make another joke? Alert the media! Oh wait, they’re already camped outside.

I spend the rest of the evening exploring my temporary prison, I mean luxury accommodation. The kitchen is all gleaming stainless steel and marble, stocked with foods I’ve never heard of. The wine rack holds bottles that probably cost more than my car.

I don’t sleep well that night, despite the ridiculously comfortable guest bed. The penthouse makes unfamiliar sounds. The hum of climate control, the occasional ping of the elevator down the hall. Not to mention the opening and closing of the front door when Dominic gets home.

I actually tense up when I hear his footsteps padding by outside, but then relax again when they continue on toward his own suite.

It’s going to be a long 30 days.

The next day,my clothing order arrives promptly at 10 AM, delivered by a white-gloved courier who doesn’t bat an eye when Jake intercepts him at the elevator.

I unwrap each piece carefully, savoring the rustle of tissue paper and the fresh, expensive smell of high-quality fabrics. For the strategy meeting, I select a navy pantsuit with subtle structural details and a cream silk blouse that feels like water against my skin.

At precisely 3 PM, Jake announces Camilla Thorne’s arrival. I’m waiting in the living room, perched on the edge of a sofa that probably costs as much as a semester at Harvard. I haven’t seen Dom all day, though I know he’s here. I heard him talking to his private chef earlier... I’m not totally sure if he’s avoiding me, or if he’s just super busy.

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