Page 92 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Just business. That’s all this ever was, all it ever could be.

“Of course,” I agree, hating how easily the lie flows. “Physical release. No strings.”

I feel him relax beneath me, relieved that I’m playing along with his fiction. “Exactly.”

We lapse into silence again, and I wonder if he can feel the rapid beating of my heart, betraying the calm I’m trying to project.

Because despite everything... the contract, the deadline, the memory of being left at the altar by another man...

I’m falling for Dominic Rossi.

26

Dominic

The morning after is awkward as fuck. We both get ready silently, maneuvering around each other in the penthouse like two celestial bodies with carefully calculated orbits designed to prevent collision.

I catch myself staring at her when she isn’t looking, remembering the way she felt beneath me last night, the way she called my name.

Just physical release, I remind myself. An extension of the clause. Nothing more.

But the lie feels hollow now, even to me.

“We have the Blackwell Innovations gala tonight,” I say as she pours herself coffee in the kitchen. “Seven o’clock.”

Tatiana nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “I know. I already have a dress.”

“Of course you do.” I almost smile. She’s always prepared.

“I used to work for Christopher, remember?” She takes a sip of her coffee. “I know his events inside and out.”

I nod, wishing I could think of something to say that doesn’t sound stilted and formal. But what is there to say after last night? After I told her about Nico? After I immediately retreated back to the safety of our “business arrangement” the moment vulnerability threatened to crack me open.

“Black tie,” I say instead.

“Dom.” She finally looks at me, exasperation clear in her eyes. “I know the dress code.”

“Right.” I finish my own coffee in one large gulp, needing to escape the tension that hangs between us like a thundercloud. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I spend the day at the office, buried in work, analyzing the Costa Rica deal, running numbers that Tatiana already checked, just to keep my mind occupied. When Jake calls to remind me it’s time to get ready for the gala, I almost tell him to cancel, to make some excuse. But I can’t. Not for this. Christopher is not just a business associate but one of my oldest friends.

And seeing him with Lucy, another successful couple born from unusual circumstances, feels like rubbing salt in a wound I didn’t even know I had.

By the time we arrive at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where the gala is being held, the familiar heaviness of Tatiana’s presence beside me has become almost comforting. She wears a deep blue dress that hugs every curve, her hair swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Jake and Nichols follow at a discreet distance, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd.

We pose for the obligatory photos, my hand resting on the small of Tatiana’s back, her body angled toward mine in practiced harmony. We’re well-practiced at this dance of feigned intimacy by now.

But honestly, after last night, I’m not even sure it’sfeignedanymore.

Fucking confusing.

“They look happy,” Tatiana murmurs once we’re inside, nodding toward Christopher and Lucy, who stand laughing together near a display of technological innovations.

I follow her gaze. Christopher has his arm wrapped around Lucy’s waist, and she leans into him, whispering something that makes him throw his head back in genuine laughter. The connection between them is palpable, electric.

“They do,” I agree.

For a moment, Tatiana and I exchange a look, wordless but heavy with meaning. Here we are, playing at marriage, while they’ve found the real thing. The irony isn’t lost on either of us.

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