5. Tatiana
5
Tatiana
I sit perched on the edge of the obscenely comfortable hotel couch, watching Dominic pace the penthouse suite like a caged tiger. He’s on his fourth phone call in thirty minutes, and with each one, the grooves between his eyebrows deepen.
My head still pounds despite the aspirin. The worst hangover of my life hasn’t even begun to clear, but the crisis management part of my brain, you know, the part that makes me exceptional at my job, is finally kicking into gear despite the fog.
“No, that won’t work,” Dom barks into his phone, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Because it’s already all over the fucking internet, Arthur!” He shoots a glance my way, his expression darkening further. “How long until you get here?”
I tune out his voice and focus on my own phone. I should be calling my friends, letting them know I’m all right, but I can’t bring myself to face them. Not yet.
I decide to check Social Media. Part of me doesn’t want to look, but the professional in me needs to assess the damage. It can’t be that bad, right?
Wrong.
Social media is absolutely exploding with photos of us. Headlines flash across my screen as I scroll:
“BILLIONAIRE DOMINIC ROSSI’S SURPRISE VEGAS WEDDING”
“WHO IS TATIANA COLE? MYSTERY WOMAN SNAGS NYC’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR”
“EXCLUSIVE: ROSSI WEDS ASSISTANT IN DRUNKEN VEGAS CEREMONY”
Jesus.
My stomach drops. Assistant . Of course that’s how they’d describe me. Not business administration graduate, not competent professional with a promising career trajectory. Just an assistant who snagged herself a rich man.
It’s exactly how I told Dominic they’d frame it.
The thought makes my blood boil even as my eyes sting with tears I refuse to shed.
“Yes, I understand the stakes,” Dom continues, his voice tight. “The investors are already calling? Fuck.”
I need to talk to someone who isn’t currently melting down about billion-dollar deals. Someone who might actually care about my side of this nightmare.
I tap Sabrina’s number and slip into the bathroom for privacy.
She answers on the first ring. “Tatiana! Oh my god, are you okay? When I made it back to our room and you weren’t there I assumed the worst... and then we saw the news and—”
“Slow down,” I whisper, sinking onto the marble floor. “I’m fine. Physically , at least.”
“Where are you? We’ve been worried sick!”
“I’m in Dom’s suite at the Bellagio.” I take a deep breath. “He’s my... we’re married.”
The silence on the other end lasts exactly three seconds before she explodes.
“WHAT? So the headlines are real? You actually married Dominic Rossi?”
“Apparently.” I examine the simple gold band on my finger. “I don’t remember any of it. After those shots Leo gave us, everything’s blank.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” she admits. “None of us remember anything after the cabana. I woke up in Leo’s room, but we were both fully dressed, thank god.” She pauses. “Wait, so you don’t remember the ceremony? Or... anything after?”
My face heats up as I recall waking up naked beside Dom. “Not the ceremony. And not... well, you know.”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice softens. “Are you sure you... had sex?”
“My body’s giving me some pretty clear evidence,” I mutter, wincing as I shift positions. “Plus there are marks. On my neck.”
She whistles low. “So what happens now? Annulment, right?”
“That’s the plan. His legal team is flying in.”
“Good. And make sure you get money for this, Tati. Lots of freakin’ money.”
I blink. “What?”
“An annulment settlement,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “This is how these things work. He’ll want this to go away quietly.”
“I hadn’t even thought about money.” The idea feels wrong somehow.
“Well, start thinking about it,” Sabrina insists. “He might want you to stay married for a bit longer as well, you know, for optics. That’s normal. Just ask for more money. You have all the power here.”
All the power?
Me?
The woman currently hiding in a bathroom while her accidental husband has a meltdown about his business empire?
“I’ll think about it,” I promise, though the concept feels strange. “I should go. I’ll call you later.”
I end the call and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like hell. My makeup is smeared under my eyes, my hair is a rat’s nest, and there are several purpling marks along my neck and collarbones, courtesy of my night spent with Dominic.
A night I have no recollection of.
This is not my life. This can’t be happening.
But the gold band on my finger says otherwise.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Dom is pacing more frantically.
“They’re downstairs,” he tells me, glancing up. “My team. They’ll be up in a minute.”
“Great.” I’ve managed to find a hotel robe to cover up, but I still feel exposed. “Should I... hide somewhere?”
Dom gives me a look that suggests I’ve said something stupid. “No. This concerns you, too.”
I nod, schooling my features into what my boss Christopher calls my “executive assistant face.” You know, the whole cool, composed, unreadable thing. It’s the mask I wear in board meetings and when dealing with difficult clients.
Right now, it’s the only armor I have.
A knock at the door sends Dom striding across the room. He opens it to reveal a sleek woman in her forties and a distinguished-looking older man, both dressed impeccably despite what must have been a last-minute cross-country flight. Flown over on one of Dom’s spare private jets, no doubt.
“Camilla, Arthur,” Dom greets them tersely. “This is Tatiana.”
“Mrs. Rossi,” the woman says with a nod that feels more like an assessment than a greeting.
“Ms. Cole,” I correct automatically, then wince. Legally, she’s not wrong.
Arthur, the lawyer, sets down his briefcase on the dining table. “Let’s get straight to it. The situation is... problematic.”
You don’t say. Who knew getting drunkenly hitched to a billionaire could be problematic? They should put that on the Vegas welcome signs.
“The press coverage is extensive,” Camilla begins, pulling out an iPad. “Every business outlet is running the story, not just the tabloids. The timing couldn’t be worse.”
Dom rubs his temple. “The Costa Rica deal.”
“Exactly,” Arthur confirms. “Mr. Chung called me directly. The conservative investors are... concerned.”
“I don’t understand,” I interject. “What does our”—the word sticks in my throat—” marriage... have to do with a business deal?”
Three pairs of eyes turn to me, and I immediately regret speaking. There’s nothing worse than feeling like the dumbest person in the room.
Camilla’s expression softens slightly. “The Costa Rica resort project is a $1.5 billion deal that requires investor confidence in Dominic’s stability and judgment. A drunken Vegas wedding followed by an immediate annulment projects exactly the opposite image.”
“It confirms their worst fears about me,” Dom adds grimly. “That I’m impulsive. Unreliable.”
“So what’s your proposal?” I ask, straightening my spine. I immediately think of the ‘delay’ Sabrina talked about on the phone.
They want us to stay married longer.
Arthur clears his throat. “We recommend delaying the annulment. Present this as a whirlwind romance rather than a drunken mistake.”
Yep. Just as Sabrina predicted.
“For how long?” Dom demands.
“Six months,” Camilla says. “Minimum. Long enough to secure the deal and start construction.”
The room goes silent. Six months. Half a year pretending to be Mrs. Dominic Rossi.
“That’s insane,” I finally manage. “I can’t—we can’t—”
“We’ll compensate you generously,” Arthur interjects smoothly. “And draw up an agreement detailing every aspect of the arrangement.”
Sabrina’s words echo in my head.
Just ask for more money. You have all the power here.
But do I?
If I refuse, Dom’s deal collapses.
If I agree, I put my life on hold for six months.
My career, my independence, my hard-won professional reputation, all of it shoved into a box labeled “Dominic Rossi’s Trophy Wife” for six months.
No thank you.
“Thirty days,” I announce, finding my voice. “That’s my offer. One month, not a day more.”
Arthur’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “Mrs. Rossi... Ms. Cole, I don’t think you understand the complexities—”
“Thirty. Days.” I enunciate each syllable like I’m explaining schedule changes to an irritating client. “That’s non-negotiable.”
Look at you, negotiating with fancy lawyers like you’re not sitting here in a hotel bathrobe with yesterday’s mascara sagging beneath your eyes. Power moves only.
Arthur exchanges a glance with Camilla, who taps one perfectly manicured finger against her lip.
“If we expedite everything...” she muses. “In theory, we could secure preliminary investor approval within that timeframe. It would be tight, but possible.” She turns to Dom. “We’d be sacrificing the construction phase optics, but if thirty days is her limit, can you make it work?”
Dom sighs and stands, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “More than okay with me. The less time we’re forced to stay married, the better. I’ll close the deal in thirty days or less.”
His words hit with an unexpected sting.
Well, don’t hold back there, buddy. Tell us how you really feel about being hitched to little old me.
For someone who supposedly found me attractive enough to marry twelve hours ago, he sure seems repulsed by the idea now. Maybe the drug goggles have worn off and he’s just now noticing he accidentally married a solid seven on a good day instead of his usual runway model.
“I still need to think about this,” I blurt out angrily.
Dom stares at me, those dark eyes unreadable. “There’s a lot at stake here, Tatiana.”
“Yes, there is,” I snap. “My entire life, for starters.”
Camilla steps between us. “Perhaps we should discuss the practical aspects. You’d need to maintain appearances. Attend certain events together, coordinate public statements. We can manage most of it with minimal disruption to your regular life.”
Minimal disruption. As if pretending to be married to one of New York’s most famous businessmen could ever be “minimal.”
“What about my job?” I ask. “I work for Christopher Blackwell. Dom’s friend.”
Arthur nods. “We’re aware. Mr. Blackwell has already been contacted.”
My heart stops. “What did he say?”
“He’s... processing the information,” Dom replies carefully.
Translation: He thinks I’ve lost my mind or I’m trying to sleep my way to the top. Fantastic.
“And living arrangements?” I press, trying to think like the organized professional I am, not the panicking woman I feel like.
“We’ll need visible cohabitation,” Camilla says. “You’ll have to move into Dominic’s Tribeca residence.”
The idea of spending nights in Dominic Rossi’s home makes my stomach flutter in ways I refuse to examine. I think of my tiny apartment in Queens, the one I was so proud to afford on my own. Will I have to give it up?
“This is crazy,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
“We’ll need to prepare a statement for the press,” Camilla redirects. “Something romantic but not overly specific.”
My head spins with the rapid shifts in conversation. One minute we’re discussing my life for the next month, the next we’re back to PR strategy.
I need air. Space. Time to process. But reporters are camped outside, and I’m trapped in this suite with these people making decisions about my life.
You’ve survived worse, Tatiana. Remember standing alone at that altar? At least this time you’re not the one being abandoned.
Oh, but I will be abandoned, in the end.
But at least I’ll be well-compensated.
Or that’s the plan, anyway.
The thought brings little comfort as Arthur begins drafting what he calls “terms of engagement” on his laptop. They discuss me as if I’m a business asset to be managed, not a person whose life has just been upended.
My phone buzzes with a call from Christopher. According to the logs, it’s the third this morning.
I can’t avoid him forever.
“I need to take this,” I announce, rising.
Dom looks up sharply. “Christopher?”
“Uh huh.”
He frowns. “What are you going to tell him?”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I have no idea. But unlike some people in this room, I actually work for a living. And right now, my boss is calling.”
The words come out harsher than intended, but I don’t apologize. Instead, I walk toward the bedroom, phone in hand and heart hammering.
Deep breath, Tatiana. One crisis at a time.
I answer the call. “Hello, Christopher.”