Page 48 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

The Cartier boutique is hushed and elegant. A sales associate approaches immediately, respectful but not obsequious, perhaps recognizing the quality of my new wardrobe despite my relative youth.

26 is still young, isn’t it?

“I’m looking for a Tank Must De Cartier watch,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the price tag I know is coming.

“Of course, madam. We have several options. Is this for a special occasion?”

My temporary billionaire husband paid me for sexual services and I need to regain some control over my life.

“Just a gift for myself,” I reply.

She brings out several options. I try them each on, but I know which one I want. The classic Tank with the steel case and black alligator strap. Timeless. Elegant. Something that will still be valuable long after this marriage is annulled.

“This one,” I decide.

The price makes my stomach flip, but I sign the credit card receipt without hesitation. Four thousand dollars. A month ago, this would have been unthinkable. Now, it’s barely a dent in my advance payment.

As the associate places the distinctive red box in a bag, I feel a strange mix of emotions. Pride in being able to afford something so luxurious. Disgust at how I earned the money. And something else... a small thrill of independence.

This watch is mine. Not a gift from Dom. Not dependent on our arrangement. Something I chose and purchased myself.

I fasten it around my wrist as soon as I leave the store. The weight of it feels significant. A reminder that no matter what happens with Dom, this month is an investment in my future.

Security is waiting for me. They lead me to the car, and as we pull away from the curb, I glance at my new purchase. The seconds tick by, each one bringing me closer to dinner with Dom.

And closer to Day 14.

The day that’s already hijacking my mental real estate like an unwelcome squatter. The day I’m contractually obligated to get on my knees again for him. Twelve days of overthinking, overanalyzing, and trying desperately not to remember how much I secretly enjoyed the last time.

Way to go, Tatiana. You’ve officially reached a new level of dysfunction when you’re literally counting down the days until your next scheduled sexual transaction. Most women mark their calendars for promotions or vacations. You? Billionaire blow jobs. Your therapist would have a field day with this... if you could ever admit any of this to another human being.

No. I force myself to stare at my new watch instead, tracing the clean lines of the face with my fingertip.

Four thousand dollars of pure independence, right there on my wrist. A tangible reminder that I’m not some lovesick idiot falling for her boss’s rich friend. I’m a business-minded woman making calculated decisions for financial gain. The physical stuff? Just a bizarre clause in an even more bizarre contract. His release, my payday. Nothing more than a high-end transaction between consenting adults.

Keep telling yourself that while you’re buying lingerie for the occasion. Oh, you know you will.

I sigh. Well, on the bright side, it will all be over soon enough. The marriage, the awkward dinners, the clause fulfillments. Just twenty-six more days of this surreal experiment in matrimonial theater, and then I can go back to my regular life... just significantly wealthier and with better accessories.

I just need to remember the stakes. Remember Rylan. Remember that developing feelings for Dominic Rossi would be the biggest mistake of my life.

Bigger even than marrying him in the first place.

You’ve got this, Tatiana.

Just keep your legs closed.

And your bank account open.

14

Dominic

Ilean against the dining room wall, watching Chef Antoine put the finishing touches on tonight’s meal. The rich aroma of truffle and herbs fills the air as he artfully arranges the seared scallops around a delicate risotto center. His movements are precise, almost hypnotic in their efficiency, each garnish placed with surgical precision.

“Monsieur Rossi, the saffron sauce,” Antoine says, presenting a small copper pot for my approval. I nod, impressed as always by his attention to detail.

“Perfect,” I tell him. “And the wine?”

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