Page 47 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

The fourth proposal is from a sustainable architecture firm that specializes in eco-friendly building methods. As I scroll through their detailed plans for locally-sourced materials and energy-efficient designs, an unwelcome memory surfaces.

The day Rylan and I met with our wedding venue contractors. The way we looked at sample seating arrangements for the reception, picked out eco-friendly wedding favors. His arm around my waist as we selected the perfect garden gazebo for the ceremony. The deposit checks I wrote, the timelines I created, the spreadsheets tracking every detail.

What I didn’t know then was that while I was meticulously planning our future, he was sleeping with his coworker. The same coworker he married three months after leaving me at the altar.

I close the browser tab, suddenly unable to focus. The familiar tightness returns to my chest. The feeling of being replaceable. Disposable.

Don’t go there. This situation with Dom is completely different. It’s temporary. Contractual. You’re not investing emotionally.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Despite my best intentions, I’m investing. I know I am. I can’t help it.

Last night, watching Dom’s reaction to my business acumen after the supplier call. The way his eyes widened slightly when I switched to Spanish during the call. That little nod he gave when I countered Jorge’s best argument. And worst of all, the rush of satisfaction that flooded through me when he said I was “fucking impressive.” Like I’d won some kind of trophy in the Impress the Billionaire Olympics.

Listen to yourself, Tatiana. You’re preening because he noticed you have a brain. What’s next? Doodling “Mrs. Rossi” in your planner? Planning what to name your imaginary children? God, you’re pathetic. One business compliment and you’re halfway to picking bridesmaid dresses... again.

And then there’s the whole matter of how he tasted... no, not going to go there again.

Anyway, my point is, all of this, my wanting to impress him, wanting to taste him... it makes him incredibly dangerous to me.

Because men like Dominic Rossi, you know, those powerful, wealthy men accustomed to getting exactly what they want, they don’t marry women like me for real. They use them, then discard them when something better comes along.

Just like Rylan.

I force myself to return to my actual work. Work. Focus on work. That’s what I’m good at. That’s what doesn’t betray me.

By five o’clock, I’ve finished my regular workload and completed my notes on all the contractor proposals, highlighting strengths, weaknesses, and compatibility with the resort’s sustainability goals. I’ve also finalized a comprehensive consulting agreement that would make my business law professor proud. Plus I’ve mostly caught up on the Singapore deal for Christopher. Not quite, though... I’ll have to work on it more when I get back to the penthouse.

The fact that I prioritized Dominic’s work over Christopher’s is unfortunately telling...

Don’t get attached...

A text from Dom interrupts my flow.

Dinner tonight at the penthouse. 8pm. Need to discuss investor meeting strategy.

Not a request. A command.

I text back:Will 8pm be before or after you learn to phrase questions as questions instead of commands?

His response takes a minute. I can almost see that steely glint that always appears in his eyes when I defy him. Finally:Would you please join me for dinner at 8pm to discuss investor strategies?

I smile despite myself.Billionaire training successful!

Who am I kidding? I don’t think a man like Dominic Rossi can ever be trained.

See you at 8,I text back.

A new determination settles over me. If I’m going to be stuck in this arrangement for another 27 days, I’m going to make the most of it. Professionally. Financially. But not emotionally. Never that.

I pack up my things and text Jake that I’m ready to leave. But instead of heading straight back to the penthouse, I make a decision.

“Jake, I need to make a stop first.”

He nods, professional as always. “Where to, Mrs. Rossi?”

“Fifth Avenue. Cartier.”

If his eyebrows rise slightly, he’s too well-trained to comment further.

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