Page 78 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“What I deserve,” he says. “What you took from me.”

“I didn’t take anything from you.”

“Bullshit.” He stands again, pacing. “You left me there, Dom. You fucking left me. And then you took my resort concept and made it your own.”

The accusation hits like a physical blow, reopening wounds that never fully healed.

Memories flash through my mind.

Sounds. Screams.

My failure.

Coward.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix my face,” he says, touching the scarring. “Sorry doesn’t take back the last fifteen years of mental trauma.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice. “Tell me what I can do to make it right.”

His eyes narrow. “Anything?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Anything.”

A calculating look crosses his face. “I want twenty percent of Serenity Shores profits. And a five percent stake in Rossi Developments.”

The numbers are staggering. Even if he had contributed to the concept years ago, which is a stretch at best, ideas are a dime a dozen in this business. It’s the execution, the years of work, the risk, the capital, thesheer timeI’ve put in that makes Serenity Shores valuable.

“Nico, you know that’s not reasonable,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We talked about sustainable resort concepts once, years ago. That hardly makes ityourproject.”

“Bullshit,” he spits. “You stole it. Just like you steal everything.”

I take a deep breath. The guilt over what happened is crushing me, but I can’t let it cloud my business judgment completely.

“I’ll consider some form of compensation,” I say carefully. “But I need time to think about what’s fair. And you need to stay away from the business side of things until the deal closes.”

“Why?” he challenges. “Afraid your pristine investors will learn the truth about perfect Dominic Rossi?”

“The deal benefits us both,” I say evenly. “I’ll work out a share for you. So don’t sabotage it.”

He laughs bitterly. “And your wife? Does she know what kind of man she married?”

I stiffen. “Leave Tatiana out of this.”

“So protective,” he mocks. “I’ve seen the tabloid photos. She’s not your usual type. Not at all. What’s the angle? Is what you have with her actually real?”

Something in my expression must give me away, because he leans forward, suddenly interested.

“Oh, this is rich,” he says. “It’s not real, is it? What is she, arm candy for the investors?”

“It’s complicated,” I mutter.

“Uncomplicate it for me,” he presses.

I shouldn’t tell him. But he’s my brother. And despite everything, I can’t lie to him. Not with the weight of my past failure hanging between us.

“We got married in Vegas,” I admit. “Accidentally. Under the influence. The news broke while the resort funding was in progress. The investors were spooked. We agreed to stay married until the deal closes.”

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