Page 72 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“Nichols texted me,” he says. “What did she say to you?”

I should tell him everything. Instead, I say, “Nothing important. Just marking her territory.”

He curses under his breath. “She shows up whenever I’m seeing someone new. Makes a scene, spreads rumors. I should have warned you.”

“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t. “Just another day in the exciting life of Mrs. Rossi.”

“Did she pretend she was seeing me?” he presses.

“She said something to that affect, yes.”

“Don’t believe a word of it,” he tells me.

“I don’t intend to.”

His voice softens slightly. “Okay. Good. How was Anya?”

“Thorough.” I manage a small smile. “But I think I passed inspection.”

“Good.” The relief is evident in his voice. “That’s... very good.”

When I disconnect, the weight of Sofiya’s words hangs between us.

He always comes back. When he’s bored of playing house. Where do you think he’s been all those late nights when you think he’s still at work?

It’s obviously a lie.

And this is obviously a temporary relationship.

Still, her words bother me more than they should.

Twelve more days until this is over.

The thought brings no comfort at all.

21

Dominic

Istare at my phone screen, blood pounding in my temples. Some fucking gossip Instagram called “Vegas Insider” has just published another photo from our wedding weekend. Not from the chapel or even from the license bureau, but from earlier at the Liquid Pool Lounge.

The photo is damning in its simplicity. Tatiana and her friends clearly on one side of the pool. Me and my crew on the opposite end. Zero interaction.

The caption reads:“EXCLUSIVE: Rossi Wedding Origin Story Falls Apart? Sources claim billionaire’s ‘whirlwind romance’ was actually a first-time meeting at Vegas pool party.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing back from my desk.

Camilla has already texted me three times about it. The investors are nervous. Again. Just when I was so close to signing the deal.

I grab my phone and head to the living room where Tatiana is working through resort vendor contracts. She’s curled up on the sofa, her own laptop balanced on her knees, looking frustratingly calm.

“We have a problem,” I announce, thrusting my phone toward her.

She looks up, takes the phone, and scrolls through the Instagram article without changing her expression.

“Hmm,” she says, handing it back. “Unfortunate timing.”

“Unfortunate timing?” I repeat, incredulous. “This directly contradicts our entire story. The story we’ve been selling to everyone for over two weeks now.”

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