Page 98 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

I smile sadly.

Be heartbroken again.

Of course.

“You’re what?”Sabrina’s eyes widen across our lunch table at Le Bernardin, her fork freezing halfway to her mouth.

“Shhh!” I hiss, glancing around nervously. The restaurant hums with the quiet conversations of Manhattan’s elite, the gentle clink of silverware against fine china creating a pleasant white noise. My security detail, Nichols today, sits at a table near the entrance, pretending to be engrossed in his phone while actually scanning every person who walks through the door.

“Let’s go to the restroom,” I whisper, sliding my napkin onto the table.

Once inside the marble-walled sanctuary of the ladies’ room, I check under the stalls to make sure we’re alone.

“Okay, paranoid much?” Sabrina teases, leaning against the sink counter.

“Hey, the walls in these places have ears!” I retort. “You try living with paparazzi stalking your every public move. I’m starting to understand why celebrities go crazy.”

“So,” Sabrina crosses her arms, “you were saying? About developing feelings?”

I groan, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “It’s ridiculous. I know it is. This whole thing is a business arrangement that ends in eight days.”

“Eight days, huh?” She raises an eyebrow. “That’s specific. I mean, after our little phone call the day you woke up married, I suspected you’d be getting the annulment sooner rather than later. I just didn’t know you’d already finalized a date.”

“We have a countdown,” I admit. “His resort deal finalizes, then annulment papers get filed. We had it set at thirty days. We’re now on day twenty-two.”

“And yet...” she prompts.

“And yet I can’t stop thinking about him.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Not just the sex... which is phenomenal, by the way...”

“Of course it is,” she mouths.

“But everything,” I continue. “The way he gets so passionate about sustainable building materials. How he frantically sketches designs on a whiteboard like he’s some mad Einstein. Even the annoying way he leaves his stuff all over my organized workspace.”

Listen to yourself, girl. You sound like a teenager with a crush, not a grown woman with a Business Administration degree and trust issues the size of Manhattan.

Sabrina studies me with a knowing look, her dark eyes softening. “Oh, honey.”

“Don’t ‘oh honey’ me,” I warn. “This is a disaster.”

“Is it?” She picks up her designer purse, fishing out a lipstick. “Maybe it’s an opportunity.”

I snort. “For what? More heartbreak? Because that worked out so well last time.”

The memory of standing in my wedding dress, waiting for Rylan as the minutes ticked by, flashes through my mind. The whispers. The pitying glances. The best man’s apologetic face as he delivered the news that the groom wasn’t coming.

Sabrina turns to the mirror and applies her lipstick with precision. “Tatiana, not every man is Rylan. Dom freakin’marriedyou.”

“While high out of his mind on GHB,” I remind her. “And he’s been trying to end it ever since.”

“Has he, though?” She caps her lipstick with a decisive click. “From what you’ve told me, he’s had plenty of opportunities to be a complete asshole about this whole situation, but instead, he’s incorporated you into his work, values your opinion, and keeps having mind-blowing sex with you outside the parameters of your contract.”

Put that way, it does sound... different. I haven’t precisely told her about Clause 7b, but her latter point still stands.

“So what are you saying?” I ask, suddenly feeling vulnerable beneath the harsh bathroom lighting.

“I’m saying,” Sabrina meets my eyes in the mirror, “that if you’re developing real feelings, maybe you should reconsider the annulment.”

My heart trips in my chest. “That’s crazy.”

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