Page 54 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

The days since our contract signing have begun to blur together. Day 7. Day 9. Day 12.

And now Day 14 looms large on my mental calendar.

Tomorrow.

The second clause fulfillment.

I tell myself I’m looking forward to it. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a man’s fantasy, isn’t it? No strings attached physical release with a beautiful woman. The first time was efficient, clinical even.

I got what I wanted.

So why does the thought of tomorrow night fill me with such unease?

I’ve been avoiding her. Not obviously enough that she would notice, but enough to maintain my sanity. Cursory hellos when we pass in the penthouse. Dinner plans that I mysteriously cancel at the last minute. Work communications conducted primarily through text and messenger.

Need your input on the sustainability metrics for the east wing. Can you review and send notes?

Investor meeting pushed to Thursday. Will need updated projections by Wednesday.

Professional.

Distant.

Safe.

It’s easier this way. Easier than facing the complexity of our situation. Easier than acknowledging the grudging respect I feel watching her work. Easier than confronting my reaction to her cool efficiency during our first encounter.

Easier than admitting I’m still thinking about that night when I found her watching me by the window, her silk robe catching the city lights, her voice soft as she told me torturing myself wouldn’t change the past.

And that’s the crux of the fucking problem, isn’t it? She saw me at my weakest. Raw. Exposed. No one sees me like that. No one. I’ve spent years building walls to keep people out and she slipped through a crack I didn’t even know existed.

I can’t let it happen again. I won’t. Letting her in means talking about the past. About him. About that night. No fucking way. Some ghosts need to stay buried.

So yes, I’ve been avoiding her.

I check my Rolex for the fourth time as I step from the town car into the crisp evening air. Eight fifteen. Not late enough to be rude but not so early I look eager.

Jake nods as he holds the door then wordlessly positions himself near the entrance, next to the other security details my friends have already brought. He’s a reassuring presence in what promises to be an uncomfortable evening.

The Polo Bar’s warm lighting and wood paneling welcome me as I step inside. The hostess recognizes me immediately.

“Mr. Rossi, your friends are already seated in the corner booth.”

I follow her past tables of New York’s elite, feeling eyes track my progress. The whispers aren’t my imagination. Since Vegas, I’ve become tabloid fodder in a way I never was before. Even with all my wealth and previous notoriety, this marriage scandal has elevated me to a new level of public interest.

Fucking annoying.

Marco spots me first, raising his glass with a grin that’s half welcoming, half mocking.

“The newlywed finally graces us with his presence,” he calls out, loud enough to turn heads.

Leo and Sam scoot over to make room in the booth. I slide in beside Sam, signaling the waitress for a scotch.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, though I’m not. “Traffic was a bitch.”

“Yeah right,” Leo says, his smile all teeth. “Couldn’t tear yourself away from the wife, could you?”

I force a laugh, remembering how Tatiana looked this morning, precisely aligning her coffee mug with the edge of the counter. The memory is oddly comforting amid this forced performance.

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