Page 38 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

7:05. Still nothing.

Is she backing out? The thought sends a spike of irritation through me. We have a deal. A legally binding agreement. Well, most of it is legally binding. The clause about her sucking my dick wouldn’t hold up in court, but she doesn’t need to know that.

By 7:10, my patience evaporates. I stand, adjust my casual attire... I changed into dark jeans and a simple gray t-shirt as soon as I got home. And I stride to her guest suite on the opposite side of the penthouse.

The door is closed, just like it was when I arrived earlier. So I know she’s fucking here and not still at work.

I hesitate only a moment before knocking sharply three times.

Footsteps approach from the other side. The door opens, and there she stands, wearing silk pajama pants and a matching top in a soft shade of blue. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, face freshly washed and free of makeup. She looks softer, younger somehow, than the sharp-edged woman who negotiated the advance payment from me.

“You’re late,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the heat already building in my blood.

“I wasn’t aware I was expected to come to you,” she replies coolly. “The clause doesn’t specify location.”

Fucking hell. Of course she memorized the exact wording. I should have expected nothing less from Christopher’s meticulous assistant.

“I specifically told you yesterday to knock on my bedroom door at seven o’clock,” I begin, then realize she’s just attempting some sort of power play on me. Trying to throw me off balance.

Well, it’s working.

“Fine,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “As per our agreement, today is Day Two.”

“I’m aware of the calendar.” She steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in if you’re going to.”

The invitation surprises me. I expected to escort her back to my room, maintaining control of the situation. Instead, she’s claiming her territory.

I consider hauling her into my arms and forcefully carrying her to my bedroom, and ordinarily I would, but somehow, that doesn’t seem appropriate. I’m starting to feel like... like maybe this is a bad idea. I’m starting to wonder if she wants this...

She signed the damn contract. She could’ve taken the clause out, but she kept it in. Of course she wants this.

I enter, scanning the space automatically. She’s done nothing to personalize it, save for her laptop on the desk and a small stack of books on the nightstand. Interesting choices... business biographies and what looks like a thriller novel on top. Meanwhile, her suitcase sits by the bed, mostly still packed.

She turns, arms crossed over her chest. “Let’s get this over with.”

My eyebrows rise. “In a rush?”

“I have work to review before tomorrow. Christopher sent over the quarterly projections for Blackwell Innovations.”

The fact that she’s thinking about work right now stings my ego in a way I hadn’t anticipated. “I’m sure he can wait.”

“Unlike some people, I take my professional responsibilities seriously at all times,” she says pointedly.

I step closer, using my height advantage. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’m simply prioritizing my time.” She holds my gaze, unflinching. “The clause requires your physical release. It doesn’t specify how long the process should take. I’m guessing that we’ll be done in around five minutes.”

Jesus. She makes it sound like a dental procedure. I knew this would be transactional, but her approach is colder than I expected. It should turn me off.

It doesn’t.

“Fine,” I say, finding myself surprisingly aroused by her efficiency. “How do you want to do this?”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face. “I would think that’s your decision. You’re the one who insisted on including this ridiculous requirement.”

I move to sit on the edge of her bed. “You agreed to it. For quite a premium, if I recall.”

“Yes. One hundred thousand per occurrence.” Her voice is all business. “Which means I’m essentially the highest-paid sex worker in Manhattan tonight.”

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