Page 58 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

And believe me, I’ve been busy.

My days have fallen into a strange but oddly functional rhythm. I spend the mornings and afternoons at Blackwell Innovations, keeping Christopher’s empire running smoothly. In the evenings I’m hunched over resort plans and investor prospectuses for Dom’s Costa Rica project. It’s like having two full-time jobs, except one of them comes with the bizarre footnote of “Oh, and by the way, I’m contractually obligated to get my temporary husband off twice a month.”

Speaking of which...

I glance at my phone. The date glares back at me accusingly. Day 14.

Halfway done with this charade. Halfway to freedom. Or halfway to the end of the most financially beneficial mistake of your life.

Glass half full, Tatiana.

I’ve barely seen Dom this week. After that night I found him staring out the window at 2 AM, he’s been like a ghost in his own penthouse. He materializes briefly in the kitchen for coffee, disappears before I enter a room, communicates almost exclusively through text messages. Stuff like:

Need revisedprojections for Investor Group B by tomorrow morning.

Please review architectural modifications to east wing. Sustainability concerns.

Will be late tonight. Don’t wait up.

Always polite.

Always professional.

Always distant.

Which is exactly what you wanted, right? This is a business arrangement, not a romantic comedy.

I smooth my hands over the new charcoal pencil skirt I bought with his money. Another addition to my growing “billionaire’s wife” wardrobe. The fabric is buttery soft against my skin, the fit impeccable. I’ve started to develop a taste for luxury I can’t afford long-term.

Just another thing you’ll have to give up when this is over.

I shift my focus back to the spreadsheet on my laptop. The numbers blur together. The Costa Rica project is ambitious, a fully sustainable luxury resort that doesn’t sacrifice an ounce of opulence. It’s the kind of vision that could change the industry if executed properly.

And I’ve actually been helping make it better. Not just fetching coffee or scheduling meetings, but making real, substantial contributions. At least I like to think so. Dom has grudgingly acknowledged my input on several occasions, which from him feels like effusive praise.

The rest of the afternoon drags. I keep thinking about tonight. About the second fulfillment of Clause 7b. About having his huge, throbbing man sword between my lips again. It would be so hot to take him not just in my mouth, but in my—

No. Not going there. He’s your temporary husband. Sex could lead to feelings. Feelings lead to heartbreak.

I leave Christopher’s office at 4:30 on the dot. Unusually early for me, but tonight feels like it needs some preparation. Mental, if nothing else.

The town car Dom insists I use is waiting outside. Nichols and Franks stand beside it, looking as impassive as ever. I still haven’t gotten used to having security, though I’ve learned Nichols is actually capable of speaking in complete sentences when necessary. He’s basically a smaller, tougher version of Jake, the head of security who accompanies Dominic everywhere.

“Evening, Mrs. Rossi,” Nicols nods, opening the door.

“Nichols.” I slide into the leather backseat, grateful for the privacy partition. The driver knows to take me straight to Dom’s penthouse.

I spend the ride trying not to think about what’s coming. Obviously, I fail miserably.

Last time was purely clinical. You treated it like a task to check off. Efficient. Detached. You gave him exactly what he wanted while giving away nothing of yourself.

But something’s shifted since then. I’ve seen glimpses of the man behind the billionaire facade. I’ve—

Stop. Don’t humanize him. Don’t get curious. Curiosity killed the PA.

The car pulls up to his building. Nichols and Franks escort me through the lobby, past the discreet nods of the staff who all know exactly who I am now, into the private elevator that whisks us up to the hallway leading to the penthouse.

“Will you need anything else this evening, Mrs. Rossi?” Nichols asks as the elevator doors open.

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