Page 76 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

In the elevator, I review my mental notes for the meeting, forcing thoughts of Tatiana aside. Mr. Chung will need reassurances about the recent tabloid photos. Ms. Sharma will be evaluating my stability. The other board members will be looking for confidence, certainty.

I can give them that. It’s what I do best.

Control the narrative.

Project strength.

As long as I don’t think about the kiss.

“We’ve arrived, sir,”Ric announces, pulling up to the restaurant.

Jake Thompson is already waiting at the entrance, his large frame unmistakable even in his tailored suit. He nods discreetly as I approach.

“Security’s in place,” he says quietly. “Private room is secure. Restaurant staff have been briefed. One entry point, no unexpected guests.”

If only life were that predictable.

“Thanks, Jake.” I straighten my tie. “Let’s get this over with.”

The private dining room at Per Se is elegant without being ostentatious. Mr. Jian Chung sits at the head of the table with two associates flanking him. Ms. Sharma is also present, along with three other board members.

“Dominic,” Chung says, rising to greet me. His handshake is firm, his eyes assessing. “We were expecting your wife to join us.”

My stomach tightens. I knew this would come up.

“She sends her apologies. She couldn’t miss her commitments at Blackwell Innovations.” I maintain eye contact, projecting confidence. “Christopher’s been generous about her schedule lately, but today was non-negotiable.”

It’s a convenient truth. I deliberately chose this time slot knowing she’d be handling Christopher’s quarterly review preparations. But I omit the deeper reason. That after the kiss, I’m not sure I could maintain the necessary professional façade with her beside me. One look, one accidental touch, and the careful control I’ve rebuilt might crumble entirely. The investors would see it immediately... my distraction, my uncharacteristic uncertainty. I can’t risk that, not with a billion dollars hanging in the balance.

“How considerate of you not to disrupt her career,” Ms. Sharma remarks, her tone suggesting she’s more than casually interested in the dynamics of our relationship.

“Partnership requires respect for each other’s commitments,” I reply smoothly, taking my seat. The words feel hollow in my mouth. Partnership. As if what Tatiana and I have is anything close to that.

“Indeed,” Chung says, clearly unconvinced. “Please, join us.”

As I take my seat, I notice Ms. Sharma studying me with unusual intensity. Her lunch with Tatiana must have gone well. Or catastrophically. It’s hard to tell with Anya.

The sommelier pours an exquisite Cabernet as the first course arrives. I force myself to focus on the conversation, to be present and engaged as we discuss the final investment tranche for Serenity Shores.

“The sustainability elements are especially impressive,” one of the board members comments. “The solar integration with the building design is revolutionary.”

I nod, launching into details about the energy efficiency models. This is my element. Projects, innovations, solutions. Things I can control, unlike the mess I left back at the penthouse.

“This is all great,” Chung interjects during a lull. “And I’m very happy with what I’m seeing, but... I’d like to ask about the recent press. These new photos suggesting your relationship with your wifebeganin Vegas. How do you address these concerns?”

Here it is. The moment I need to be the confident, controlled Dom Rossi they all expect.

“Gossip thrives on partial truths,” I say. “Tatiana and I have known each other professionally for years through Christopher Blackwell. The photos simply captured one moment before we reconnected later that evening.”

The lie rolls off my tongue smoothly, practiced.

“Your sudden marriage caused quite a stir,” Chung presses. “For a man known for his calculated business decisions, it still seems uncharacteristically impulsive.”

I meet his gaze directly. “Some decisions transcend business logic, Mr. Chung.”

“How did you know?” Ms. Sharma interjects unexpectedly. “That she was the one you would marry?”

The question catches me off guard. My prepared responses evaporate. For a dangerous moment, Tatiana’s face flashes in my mind. Not the polished professional who navigates my world with such precision, but the woman I glimpsed in her Queens apartment, surrounded by books with margin notes and photos of people who knew her before me.

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