Page 67 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Fine. But I won’t be long.

I quick dial Jake. “Have Ric bring the car around.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m waiting in the lobby of my Tribeca building when Tatiana steps out of the elevator. She’s changed from her work clothes into dark jeans and a simple gray sweater that somehow looks far more appealing than it has any right to.

“Ready?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

She nods. “It’s really not necessary for you to come.”

“Appearances,” I remind her, though we both know that’s bullshit. There won’t be paparazzi waiting in Sunnyside on a Friday night.

The truth is I want to see where she lives. I want to understand the woman who’s somehow wormed her way under my skin despite all my defenses.

The ride to Queens is mostly silent. Ric navigates through Manhattan traffic while Tatiana stares out the window, her profile illuminated by passing streetlights. The follow car trails discreetly behind us.

“Your apartment,” I finally say. “You’ve kept it even though you’re staying at the penthouse.”

She doesn’t look at me. “I figure it was only thirty days... no point in giving up my lease.”

“Always planning ahead,” I mock.

Now she turns, her expression unreadable. “One of us has to.”

The barb lands exactly where she intended, but I don’t rise to it. I deserve worse after how I handled things the other night.

Ric pulls up outside a modest pre-war apartment building. Nothing fancy, but well-maintained.

When I emerge, Jake is waiting for me, courtesy of the follow car.

“The team doesn’t need to come up,” I tell Jake, who looks like he wants to argue. “We’ll be fine.”

The lobby is clean but dated. No doorman, just a simple intercom system and mailboxes lining one wall. We take the elevator to the fourth floor, and Tatiana leads me down a narrow hallway to apartment 4C.

She hesitates before unlocking the door, like she’s suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s nothing like your place,” she warns.

“I should hope not. My interior decorator would be devastated to learn his aesthetic is common.”

That earns me a small smile as she pushes the door open.

The apartment is small but impeccably organized. A living room flows into a tiny kitchen, with what I assume is a bedroom and bathroom through a door to the left. The furniture is modest but carefully chosen. A soft throw blanket drapes over a well-worn armchair positioned by the window. Books line nearly every available surface. And next to them, there are photos of people who knew her before me. Most 26-year-olds don’t even keep printed books anymore, let alone photos. They store everything digitally. But not Tatiana.

The place smells like her. Not the expensive perfume she’s taken to wearing at the penthouse, but something more subtle. Something...her.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, watching me carefully.

“It’s nice.” And I mean it. There’s a warmth here that my sterile penthouse lacks.

She moves to a bookshelf, pulling down a framed photo. “I need this. And some clothes.”

I find myself drawn to the photo before she can tuck it away. It shows Tatiana with an older couple, all three smiling broadly. The family resemblance is unmistakable.

“Your parents?”

She nods. “From last Christmas.”

“You look happy.”

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