A Standalone Vegas Wedding, Billionaire Romance (with a ripped bikini top)
First rule of Vegas Girls Trips: Avoid accidentally marrying your bosss insanely hot, notoriously commitment-phobic billionaire friend.
My Vegas let loose weekend started with a mortifying poolside encounter involving billionaire Dominic Rossi and a ripped bikini top.
One ridiculous dare and several hazy, high-octane hours later? I wake up in a strange penthouse suite with a pounding headache, a gold band on my left ring finger, and the intensely gorgeous, equally horrified Dominic beside me.
Annulment is the obvious, immediate plan.
Until the tabloids plaster blurry photos of our nuptials everywhere, threatening to derail his $1.5 billion resort deal.
Suddenly, Mr. Control-Freak-Commitment-Phobe needs me.
His proposal: Stay married for exactly 30 days. Save his empire, get a payout. Simple, right?
Now Im living in his stunning penthouse in NYC, trying to maintain my professional composure while navigating the undeniable heat simmering between us. Hes chaos to my carefully constructed order, haunted by shadows I dont understand, and infuriatingly capable of seeing straight through my defenses.
After being spectacularly left at the altar before, letting anyone close feels like tempting fate. This arrangement is purely transactional. Getting tangled up emotionally with my temporary, accidental husband? Thats a complication my organized mind refuses to allow.
So why does fighting with him feel like foreplay, and why is pretending to be his wife starting to feel dangerously real?
