Page 59 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“No, thank you.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

The two men wait at the far side of the hall as I approach the door to the penthouse suite. When I’m inside, I close it behind me and peer through the peephole. I watch the two security personnel enter the elevator and vanish.

Alone at last.

The penthouse is quiet. I kick off my heels by the door, a habit I’ve developed these past two weeks despite the formal nature of our arrangement. The marble is cool against my stockinged feet.

I wander into the kitchen like a death row inmate approaching her last meal. Antoine, Dom’s personal chef, has left gourmet sandwiches in the fridge.

Turkey and provolone, with what appears to be handcrafted aioli and microgreens, because heaven forbid a billionaire ever experience the disappointment of plain old PB&J.

Two bites in, and I’m officially done pretending I have an appetite. I carefully rewrap the sandwich, because wasting food that costs more than some people’s hourly wage feels criminal, and tuck it back in the fridge where it can live to intimidate me another day.

Then I retreat to my room, the guest suite that’s bigger than my actual apartment, and close the door with the decisive click of someone who’s absolutely not freaking out.

The clock on the nightstand reads 6:17. Forty-three minutes.

I wonder if I should wear the same silk pajamas as last time? What’s the proper attire for a contractually obligated sexual encounter, anyway? The Neiman Marcus catalog definitely doesn’t have a section for that.

I settle on a simple black silk robe over matching lingerie. Not that he’ll see the lingerie if things go like last time. But wearing it makes me feel less... disposable somehow.

At 6:58, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap like I’m waiting for a job interview instead of... whatever this is. My heart pounds against my ribs, sending blood rushing to my face in what I’m sure is an attractive mottled blush. My eyes are burning.

Breathe, Tatiana. Don’t cry. You’ve done this before. It’s just sex. Or not even sex. Just a physical release. His release. That’s what the contract specifies.

Who knows, maybe he won’t even show up. He’s been so distant the past week, it wouldn’t surprise me. My hopes start to rise.

I keep my eyes on the clock.

6:59.

7:00.

7:01.

Yes. He’s not coming. I don’t have to worry.

I actually begin to relax, a little. But I also feel... disappointed?

And then the knock echoes through my room.

7:02 PM.

My heart rate picks up again. Of course he’s going to show up, typical man that he is. Even billionaires think with their dicks.

“Come in,” I call, hating the slight tremor in my voice.

The door opens, and there he stands. Dark jeans, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. He looks good. Irritatingly good.

“Tatiana.” His voice is lower than usual, rougher.

“Dom.” I stand, cinching my robe tighter. “Right on time.”

His eyes darken as they sweep over me. “Clause 7b. Day fourteen.”

“I’m well aware,” I say, aiming for cool detachment but landing somewhere closer to nervous sarcasm. My heart is beating so loudly I wonder if he can hear it.

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The atmosphere shifts immediately, the air charging with something that definitely wasn’t present during our last encounter.

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