Page 66 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Something in my chest deflates like a sad birthday balloon three days after the party.

“Oh. Okay.” I nod, as if this is exactly the answer I expected. Wanted, even.

What did you think he was going to say, genius? ‘Actually, Tatiana, I’ve fallen madly in love with you and want to make this temporary marriage real?’ Get a grip. Remember what Rylan did. Don’t give Dom the opportunity to do the same.

“Good,” I add, because apparently I enjoy emotional self-flagellation. “We’re on the same page then.”

“Exactly.” He still won’t look at me directly. “This is a business arrangement. Both parties get what they need. End of story.”

“Right. Thirty days, then an annulment. Clean break.” The words taste like cardboard in my mouth.

He finally turns to face me, and those walls are higher than I’ve ever seen them. Reinforced concrete with barbed wire on top.

“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” he says abruptly. “I should get some sleep.”

Translation: this conversation is over, please see yourself out.

“Of course,” I tell him. “I should finish up a few things for Christopher anyway.”

I gather my laptop and notes, painfully aware of how he keeps a careful distance between us. No accidental touches now. No electric fingers brushing against mine.

It’s fine. This is what we agreed to.

This is what I want.

Liar.

As I head toward the door, I pause, unable to help myself. “The resort plans look good. Your investors will be impressed.”

“Thank you for your input,” he replies, all corporate politeness.

And just like that, we’re back to being business associates who happen to be temporarily, legally bound to each other. Nothing more, nothing less.

Fifteen more days, Tatiana. Just fifteen more days.

But as I walk back to my room, I’m no longer certain that countdown is something I’m looking forward to.

19

Dominic

Icheck my watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Friday night and I’m stuck in my office staring at the same proposal I’ve been reviewing all afternoon. The letters blur together as my mind wanders to more pressing concerns.

Like the fact that Tatiana and I are acting like nothing happened two nights ago.

Like professionals. Like business associates. Like strangers who just happen to be temporarily married.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, shoving the document aside. Who am I kidding? I haven’t processed a single word in the last hour.

My phone buzzes with a text from Tatiana.

Heading home early. Need to get some things from my apartment tonight. Nichols is arranging the car.

I stare at the message, something uncomfortable settling in my chest. Her apartment. Her real life. The one that existed before I dragged her into this mess.

Before I can overthink it, I type back:I’ll come with you. Be ready in 30.

Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. I can almost see her debating whether to argue.

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