4. Tatiana
4
Tatiana
P ain. That’s my first conscious thought. Searing, throbbing, all-consuming pain centered squarely behind my eyeballs. My mouth feels like someone stuffed it with cotton balls soaked in tequila.
Good morning, sunshine. Welcome to death.
I keep my eyes firmly closed, afraid that any light might actually split my skull in two. The sheets beneath me feel impossibly soft. They’re definitely not the mid-range hotel linens from the room I’m sharing with my friends.
Where exactly am I?
I cautiously extend my hand, patting the space beside me. My fingers connect with warm skin and firm muscle.
Oh no.
No no no.
I crack one eye open, immediately regretting it as sunlight stabs through floor-to-ceiling windows. A penthouse suite of some kind.
Turning my head requires herculean effort, but I finally do it. The naked torso beside me belongs to...
Dominic Rossi??
Dominic freaking Rossi.
Then the panic finally hits me.
You had sex with DOMINIC ROSSI. Your boss’s billionaire friend. Shit shit shit.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
What have I gotten myself into now? And why don’t I remember anything?
We met at the pool, went to a private cabana, I think, and then... nothing.
As I try to piece together how we got from the cabana to... wherever we are now, something catches the light. A band of gold on my left hand.
That’s weird. I don’t wear gold jewelry.
I lift my hand closer to my face, and the room starts spinning.
Holy shit. That’s a wedding ring. A WEDDING RING.
A deeper panic slams into me like a freight train. I bolt upright, ignoring the violent protest from my head, and stare at my hand in horror.
“What the actual fuck?” I hiss.
Dom stirs beside me, groaning. “Keep it down,” he mumbles sleepily.
“Dom,” I say. “Dom, wake up.”
He rolls over, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “Five more minutes.”
“DOMINIC!” I smack his chest with my left hand.
The gold band makes contact with his skin, and something about the sound must cut through his hangover because his eyes fly open.
“What the—” He grabs my hand, staring at the ring. Then, with dawning horror, he raises his own left hand.
An identical gold band gleams mockingly in the morning light.
“No,” he says. “No fucking way.”
“Yes fucking way,” I reply, yanking my hand back. “We’re... we’re...”
I can’t even say it. Saying it makes it real.
Dom sits up now, sheets pooling around his waist. Under different circumstances, I’d appreciate the view. Right now, I’m too busy having a coronary.
He rubs his temple. “This has to be a joke. Leo probably—”
“It’s not a joke.” I point to the nightstand where a crumpled paper sits. Even from here, I can make out the official seal of Clark County, Nevada.
Dom grabs it, scanning the document with increasingly frantic eyes. “Marriage Certificate... Dominic Anthony Rossi... Tatiana Elizabeth Cole... what the FUCK?”
“That’s what I’d like to know!” I scramble out of bed, suddenly aware of my complete nakedness. I grab the nearest piece of clothing, one of his dress shirts, and pull it on.
Two years ago I was left at the altar. Now I’ve jumped three spaces and advanced directly to GO, skipping the altar entirely. What the hell is wrong with me?
“This is your fault,” I say, pacing the luxurious suite.
“MY fault?” Dom looks incredulous. “How exactly is this my fault?”
“Because I’d never marry...” I pause, remembering something that happened in the cabana.
“I was drugged! We both were!” I stop pacing to glare at him. “Whose friend brought the GHB? Leo. And who’s friends with Leo? YOU.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault, right? If I recall, you’re the one that took it first!”
“That’s because you dared me!” My voice rises to a pitch that makes us both wince.
“No I didn’t!” he retorts.
“Yes you did!” I insist.
Dom falls back against the pillows. “Jesus Christ. I’m married. I’m actually married.”
The way he says it stings more than it should. Like it’s the apocalypse or something. Which I suppose it is.
What did you expect, Tatiana? That he’d be thrilled to wake up accidentally hitched to his friend’s secretary?
“Well, don’t worry,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We can get this annulled. Today. Right now.” I search for my phone, finding it on the floor beside what I assume are my clothes from last night.
“Annulment. Right.” Dom sits up again. “That’s the logical step.”
“Exactly.” I start gathering my scattered belongings. My shorts, my red tank top, one shoe... “We need to fix this before anyone finds out.”
Dom reaches for his own phone. “Too late for that.”
He turns the screen toward me. It’s a tabloid website. The headline screams: “ROSSI’S VEGAS WEDDING: BILLIONAIRE DEVELOPER TIES KNOT IN SURPRISE CEREMONY.”
Beneath it is a blurry photo of us stumbling out of what must be the wedding chapel, my arm around his waist, his lips pressed to my temple. We look hammered but ecstatically happy.
“Oh god.” My legs give out, and I sink onto the edge of the bed. “This can’t be happening.”
My phone buzzes in my hand. Then again. And again. A cascade of notifications already floods the screen. Texts from Sabrina, Jess, Amara. Missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize. And most terrifying of all, an email from Christopher Blackwell with the subject line: “Contact me immediately.”
“I’m going to be fired,” I whisper. “Christopher is going to fire me.”
Dom pushes himself out of bed, seemingly unconcerned with his own nudity as he paces. “Christopher won’t fire you. I’ll make sure of it.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice cracking. “This job is everything to me. I’ve worked so hard to build a reputation for professionalism and competence, and now I’m going to be known as the secretary who got drunk in Vegas and married the billionaire.”
Just another gold-digging secretary. That’s what everyone will think. Not that you worked your ass off for years, putting yourself through school, climbing your way up from nothing.
“Hey.” Dom’s voice softens as he sits beside me. “Nobody’s going to think that.”
I glare at him. “You know what society people are like... that’s exactly what they’ll think. I’ll never work in Manhattan again.”
He frowns, then reaches for his underwear and pulls them on. Small mercies.
“Look,” he says, “we just need to be strategic about this. We’ll get the annulment, but we need to control the narrative.” He runs a hand through his hair again, a gesture I’m starting to recognize as his thinking mode. “My PR team can spin this. We’ll say it was a misunderstanding, or a joke that went too far.”
“A joke?” I repeat. “Our marriage is a joke to you?”
Why are you offended? You want this annulled as badly as he does.
Dom sighs. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with the weight of our catastrophic error in judgment. My head pounds, a brutal reminder of last night’s excess.
“I need water,” I mutter, standing on shaky legs. “And aspirin. And possibly a time machine.”
“Bathroom should have both. Except the time machine.” Dom gestures toward a door. “There’s probably a robe in there too.”
I shuffle to the bathroom, which is predictably palatial. Marble everywhere, a shower big enough for a basketball team, and a tub that could qualify as a small pool. I find the aspirin in a cabinet and gulp down two pills with tap water.
When I return to the bedroom, Dom is on the phone, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. He’s put on pajama pants at least.
“No, Arthur, I understand the implications... Yes, I know... No, I’m not... Look, just stall them until I can... Right. Thanks.”
He hangs up, looking grim.
“Problems in billionaire land?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
“You could say that.” He sinks into a chair.
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. That’s not... I didn’t mean to complicate your business.”
Dom waves a dismissive hand. “Not your fault. Well, not entirely.”
We fall silent again, both lost in our own catastrophes. The reality of our situation weighs on me like a physical thing. Not just the marriage, but the aftermath. The public spectacle, the professional fallout, the personal humiliation.
Left at the altar once, married in a drugged haze the next time. Your romantic life is really hitting the all-time highs, Tatiana.
“What happens now?” I ask finally.
Dom looks up, his dark eyes unreadable. “The heads of my legal and PR teams have already jumped on a flight, and they’ll counsel us more when they arrive. In the meantime, call your friends, let them know you’re alive. Don’t worry, my lawyer will start the annulment proceedings as soon as he gets here.”
“Right.” I reach for my phone, then hesitate. “Dom?”
“Hmm?”
“Did we... you know...?” I gesture vaguely between us.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I have no idea actually. I remember taking the drugs in the cabana, and then... nothing.”
“Great.” I close my eyes. “So I might have consummated a marriage I don’t remember agreeing to.”
“If it helps,” Dom says, his voice dropping to a gravelly tone that does inappropriate things to my insides, “I’m pretty sure we did. You have a... mark . On your neck. A few, actually.”
My hand flies to my throat, finding tender spots. “Fantastic. Just fantastic.”
A knock at the door makes us both jump.
“Mr. Rossi?” A male voice calls. “Security check-in. There are reporters gathering in the Bellagio lobby downstairs.”
Dom sighs. “Thanks, Jake. Hold them off as long as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
I look at Dom, panic rising again. “Reporters? How am I supposed to leave without being seen or talking to anyone?”
He meets my gaze, and for the first time this morning, I see uncertainty in his eyes. “I don’t think you can.”
“So I’m trapped here? With you?”
“With me,” he confirms. “Mrs. Rossi.”
The title hits me like a bucket of ice water. I sit back down on the bed, my legs suddenly boneless.
Mrs. Rossi. Tatiana Rossi. That’s your name now. At least until the annulment goes through.
“Don’t call me that,” I whisper.
Dom nods, his expression softening. “I’m sorry. This is...”
“A nightmare?” I supply.
“I was going to say ‘complicated,’ but nightmare works too.”
The silence returns, heavier than before. Outside, Las Vegas continues its relentless glitter, oblivious to the wreckage it’s created inside this penthouse suite.
My head throbs in time with my heartbeat.
This can’t be real.
Any minute now, I’ll wake up in my shared hotel room, laugh about this crazy dream with my friends, and go back to my organized, controlled life.
The gold band on my finger catches the light again, and I know with absolute certainty that this disaster is only just beginning.