Page 87 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Coward.

Yes. I am.

In more ways than one.

With effort, I push away, leaving the door open a crack. I move to my desk, forcing myself to open my laptop and actually check those emails I mentioned. But the words blur before my eyes, my mind stubbornly returning to the woman I left standing in the kitchen.

I just need to hold it together for ten more days.

Then I can forget the way she looked at me tonight, the way she fits so seamlessly into my life, the way she challenges me and sees through my bullshit and makes me want things I have no right to want.

Ten days, and then I can finally stop feeling like I’m drowning every time she looks at me.

Ten days to freedom.

So why does freedom suddenly feel like the last thing I want?

25

Tatiana

The penthouse feels cavernous tonight, like I’m wandering through the belly of some luxurious whale. The marble floors are cold beneath my bare feet as I pace from the kitchen to the living room, replaying Dom’s abrupt exit for the thousandth time.

Real smooth, Tatiana. You practically eye-fucked him and licked your lips like he was a human ice cream cone, and he ran away like you had cooties.

I grab my glass of abandoned scotch from the kitchen counter. The one he poured for me before things went sideways, and take a hearty swig. The amber liquid burns pleasantly, warming me from the inside out. Not that I need warming. I’m already running hot, a confusing mix of anger, embarrassment, and lingering desire making my skin feel two sizes too small.

Just ten more days of this bizarre charade, and then what? Back to my normal life? As if anything could feel normal after the past three weeks of playing billionaire’s wife.

The night had started so well. We were a goddamn team at the gala. When that investor, Mr. Chung, tried to trip us up with his questions about our future, we’d been seamless. The way Dom had looked at me when I talked about raising a family while reviewing architectural designs... there was something real there. I’d stake my new Cartier watch on it.

And then we came home, and I thought... Ireallythought...

What, genius? That he’d sweep you off your feet, confess his undying love, and fuck the living daylights out of you? That Mr. Commitment-Phobe would suddenly forget this whole arrangement washisidea to save his precious business deal?

I drain my glass, wincing at both the burn and my own pathetic wishful thinking.

“This is absurd,” I mutter to myself, setting the glass down with a decisive clink. “I’m not some lovesick teenager. I’m a grown woman with a business degree and self-respect.”

The latter might be debatable, considering I agreed to the “Personal Comfort Clause” that essentially turned me into an on-demand sex dispenser. Twice, officially. Three times, if you count... whatever that was after I completed the Day 14 clause.

Which was hot as fuck and you know it.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory of Dom’s mouth on me, his hands on my hips, the way he—

No. I won’t go there. Not now.

What I need is answers. Real ones, not the evasive bullshit he’s been feeding me about “minor disturbances” at the investor dinner. And I need to know if there’s anything genuine beneath this contract, this arrangement, or if I’m just kidding myself.

Ten days left, and I’m standing here agonizing over a man who dismissed tonight, and everything we’ve been through, including “the kiss,” as a “performance.”

I march to my room, throw on a silk robe over my nightgown, and tie it with decisive fury. The clock reads 11:37 PM. Too late for a professional conversation, but that ship sailed when he started avoiding me.

His office door is ajar, soft light spilling into the hallway. I can see him hunched over his laptop, brow furrowed in concentration, tie loosened but still hanging around his neck like he couldn’t be bothered to remove it completely. He looks exhausted but devastating, and my stupid heart does a little flip.

Remember the altar, Tatiana. Remember standing there like an idiot while everyone whispered and pointed.

Men leave.

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