Page 69 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“Ah, Anya,” he says, nodding. “She’s sharp. Old money, traditional values.”

“Should I refuse?” I ask, desperately hoping he’ll say yes.

He shakes his head. “No. Go charm her. You’ve dealt with Christopher’s investors before.”

“As his assistant, not his wife,” I counter. “Big difference.”

Dom tilts his head, studying me. “Worried? I can come with you, if you like.”

No, I love being interrogated by high society dimwits who think I’m gold-digging my way into their precious little club.

“I’ll handle it,” I say instead.

“Wear the navy Armani,” he suggests. “You look powerful in it.”

I hate that he notices what I wear.

I hate even more that I’m pleased he notices.

I arrivefifteen minutes early because punctuality is my security blanket.

Nichols and Franks, my assigned security detail, enter first, scanning the restaurant before nodding me forward.

I follow them inside. The Modern certainly lives up to its name. It’s all clean lines and strategic lighting that makes everyone look substantially more attractive than they actually are. Or at least, it does that to me.

While I linger in the waiting area, my detail takes a table nearby, pretending to be business associates having lunch, but their eyes never stop moving.

Bodyguards. When did this become my life?

I smile sadly. It won’t be my life for much longer.

I smooth non-existent wrinkles from my navy Armani pantsuit and straighten my shoulders. The weight of my new Cartier watch against my wrist centers me. It’s mine. Paid for with money I negotiated. A small victory.

“Tatiana?” The maître d’ approaches. “Ms. Sharma is waiting for you.”

Damn. She’s early, too. Got here before me.

Power play move?

I follow the maître d’ to a corner table where a striking woman in her fifties rises to greet me. She’s elegant in a simple black sheath dress, a single strand of pearls at her throat. Her dark hair is streaked with silver and pulled into a sleek chignon.

“Mrs. Rossi,” she says, extending her hand. “Thank you for joining me.”

Mrs. Rossi. God, that still sounds bizarre.

“Please, call me Tatiana,” I say, shaking her hand firmly.

“Anya, then.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve ordered champagne. I hope that’s acceptable.”

Before I can answer, a waiter appears with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“To unexpected unions,” Anya says, raising her glass after he pours.

I smile politely and take a small sip. “Unexpected indeed.”

She studies me over her glass. “I must admit, Dominic’s marriage came as quite a shock. He’s never struck me as the impulsive type.”

Except when he’s inserting sex clauses into business contracts.

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