Page 42 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

What am I, a fucking teenage? I have a business to run. Stop this second-guessing, lovey dovey shit. I can fuck anyone I want, whenever I want. I’m Dominic Rossi. I don’t need Tatiana.

The drive to Blackwell’s headquarters takes less time than expected in the early evening traffic. Our office buildings are only a couple of blocks apart as well, so that’s also a factor.

Christopher is already standing when I enter his office. He’s pulling on his coat. Ever since his marriage to Lucy, he looks different somehow. More relaxed. Definitely happier.

It’s so fucking trippy.

“This better be good,” he says, but he’s smiling. “I’m trying this new thing called work-life balance.”

“It suits you,” I say, settling into one of his visitor chairs without waiting for an invitation. Normally I’d grab some scotch from his bar, but he’s in a hurry. “This won’t take long.”

He sits back down, eyebrows raised. “Is this about your sudden nuptials? The Vegas situation?”

“I figured you’d have questions.” I run a hand through my hair, uncertain where to start. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“You mean you didn’t marry my extremely competent executive assistant after a wild night in Vegas?” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “Because the photos in the Post suggest otherwise.”

“We did get married,” I admit. “But it’s not a real marriage. Or at least, not anymore. It’s become a business arrangement.”

I explain the situation concisely. The resort deal. The conservative investors. The deadline. The agreement. I leave out certain details like the fucking “Personal Comfort Clause.” Some things a man keeps to himself, even from his closest friends. Especially considering how much of a bad idea that particular clause was.

Christopher listens without interruption, his expression shifting from amused to serious. When I finish, he just nods.

“So you’re using her,” he says, his voice neutral.

“It’s mutual,” I counter quickly. “She’s being well compensated. Very well compensated.”

“I’m sure.” He taps his fingers against his desk. “Tatiana is smart. Pragmatic. If she agreed to this arrangement, she saw value in it.”

“Exactly.”

“But she’s also loyal. Hardworking. The best assistant I’ve ever had.” He fixes me with a look that makes me shift uncomfortably. “Don’t fuck with her career, Dominic. Or her reputation.”

“That’s not my intention.”

“Intentions are irrelevant. Results matter.” He stands again. “I trust you, but I also respect her. Don’t make me regret staying out of this.”

“We have a contract,” I say, standing as well. “Everything’s professional.”

Christopher snorts. “Nothing about marrying someone in Vegas is professional, fake or otherwise.” He checks his watch. “Now, if that’s all, I have a wife waiting. Arealwife.”

Those last three words sting harder than I expect them to.

I force a smile. “That’s all.” I extend my hand. “Thanks for understanding.”

He shakes it firmly. “I understand business necessities. Just remember she’s a person, not a clause in your contract.”

His words hit too close to last night’s events. I nod stiffly and turn to leave.

“And Dom?” he calls after me.

I pause at the door. “Yeah?”

“Congratulations. You managed to marry the only woman I know who might actually be able to handle you.”

I’m still thinking about his words when I arrive home. The penthouse is quiet, but I can see light under Tatiana’s door. She must have returned early.

I consider knocking on her door and apologizing for last night, but then I realize I have nothing to apologizefor. She fucking signed the contract. She agreed to every sultry detail.

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