Page 53 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

His jaw tightens visibly. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Tatiana.”

“I wasn’t. I just—”

“Go back to bed,” he cuts me off, turning away again. “Please.”

The “please” surprises me. It’s not a word Dom uses often, at least not with me. It sounds almost like a request rather than a command. Almost like he needs to be alone more than he needs to be obeyed.

I nod, even though he can’t see me, and take a step back. But something makes me pause.

“Whatever it is,” I say softly, “whatever happened... torturing yourself at two in the morning won’t change it.”

Look at you, giving life advice to a billionaire.

I suppose my interactions with Christopher have emboldened me.

Unsurprisingly, Dom doesn’t respond.

Well done, Tatiana. Who appointed you therapist of the year?

I notice his shoulders drop slightly. Maybe my words made a difference after all, then. He’s not relaxed, but maybe he’s a fraction less tense.

I retreat quietly, padding back down the hallway to my room.

The encounter felt so surreal, like I glimpsed something I wasn’t supposed to see. Not just Dom’s bare torso (impressive as it was), but something far more private.

A wound.

A vulnerability.

Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling, sleep now impossible. My mind replays the scene, analyzing it from every angle like a particularly complex contract clause.

“Should have protected him.”The words echo in my head. Who was Dom talking about? A friend? A family member? And protected from what?

The man I found tonight doesn’t fit with the image of Dominic Rossi I’ve constructed. The arrogant billionaire, demanding and controlling, pursuing his resort dream with ruthless determination and at any cost. This Dom seemed... haunted. Carrying something heavy I can’t even begin to understand.

Well, if there’s anything my two years as Christopher Blackwell’s personal gatekeeper has taught me, it’s that billionaires are just as screwed up as the rest of us mere mortals. Maybe more so. Their emotional baggage doesn’t disappear, it just gets upgraded to custom Louis Vuitton and shipped via private jet.

I roll onto my side, pulling the covers up higher. The clock now reads 2:21 AM. In less than seven hours, I’ll need to be up, dressed, and back in my perfectly competent PA persona at Christopher’s office. I should be focusing on sleep, not on Dom’s mysterious midnight slips.

But I can’t shake the image of him silhouetted against the city lights, whiskey untouched, shoulders bearing some invisible weight. Or the raw pain in his voice when he muttered those words, thinking himself alone.

Don’t you dare feel sorry for him, Tatiana. Don’t you dare get curious about his pain. That’s exactly how women like you end up falling for men like him.

It’s a warning I desperately need to heed. Because despite everything... the contractual nature of our relationship, the temporary timeline, the way he’s treated me like a transaction... tonight showed me a glimpse of something else. Something that makes Dominic Rossi more complex, more human, and infinitely more dangerous to my carefully guarded heart.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, trying to forget the vulnerability I witnessed. But one thought persists, circling like a restless shark:

What happened to Dominic Rossi? What ghost haunts him in the darkest hours of the night? And why do I suddenly, inexplicably, want to know?

Twenty-five more days, Tatiana. Just twenty-five more days, and none of this will be your problem anymore.

But somewhere deep down, in a place I refuse to acknowledge, I’m no longer entirely convinced that’s a good thing.

16

Dominic

Ithrow myself into work, spending longer hours at the office than necessary, taking meetings I could delegate, reviewing documents that don’t require my personal attention. Anything to keep my mind occupied.

---