8. Tatiana
8
Tatiana
I stare at my phone, still processing the fact that Christopher isn’t firing me. It feels like the first semi-positive development since waking up this morning with his best friend’s wedding ring on my finger.
One catastrophe averted. Nine hundred to go. You’re killing it, Tatiana.
The sound of voices filters through the door. Dom and his crisis team are still out there waiting for me, probably drafting my life away in neat legal paragraphs. I should probably go face them before they decide to sneak something into the contract that doesn’t agree with me.
My head pounds as I stand, the hangover still clinging to my temples despite the aspirin. I catch my reflection in the mirror and grimace.
“You got this,” I whisper to myself, straightening the hotel bathrobe. “Just another business negotiation.”
Yeah, because you negotiate accidental marriages all the time. Total pro.
When I push open the bedroom door, three heads swivel in my direction. Dom’s expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me feel like I’m being assessed.
“Everything okay with Christopher?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Surprisingly, yes. I still have a job,” I reply, moving toward the sitting area. “Though I’ll be signing more confidentiality agreements than a reality show contestant.”
Arthur clears his throat. “That’s excellent news, Mrs. Rossi... Ms. Cole. While you were on the phone, I took the liberty of drafting our preliminary agreement.”
“Really?” I say. “That was quick.”
“It’s mostly boilerplate stuff,” he says.
The older man slides a tablet across the coffee table. It’s connected to his laptop by a long cord.
The document on the tablet’s screen is titled “Temporary Marital Arrangement and Confidentiality Agreement.”
Sexy title. Nothing says romance like legally binding contracts.
“Thirty days,” I confirm, taking the tablet. “And then we annul this whole thing?”
“Precisely,” Camilla says. “The timeline aligns with your request. You’ll only need to maintain appearances as a couple during that period.”
I start scanning the document, grateful for my business degree as I navigate the dense legalese. Standard confidentiality clauses. Mutual non-disparagement provisions. Media appearance schedules.
“What about compensation?” I ask without looking up.
The room goes quiet. I can feel Dom watching me.
“We’ve included a reasonable settlement,” Arthur says smoothly. “Page four, section 3B.”
I scroll to the section and nearly choke.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.
“Is that not acceptable?” Dom asks, a hint of challenge in his tone.
I think of Sabrina’s advice: Ask for more money. You have all the power here.
“It’s a starting point,” I say, mimicking the tone I’ve heard Christopher use in countless negotiations.
Dom’s eyebrow lifts slightly, but I’m already scrolling through the rest of the document. And that’s when I see it.
Clause 7b: Personal Comfort Provision.
My eyes widen as I scan the paragraph and heat floods my cheeks. The legal language is carefully crafted, but the meaning is unmistakable. I’m expected to provide Dom with “personal comfort and physical attentiveness leading to his satisfaction” on two specific dates during our arrangement.
The bastard wants scheduled sex.
I slowly raise my eyes from the tablet, fury bubbling up like hot lava.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet as I turn the tablet around. “Clause 7b?”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably, but Dom meets my gaze steadily.
“It ensures the appearance of marital intimacy,” he says with infuriating calm. “Should anyone question the authenticity of our relationship.”
The cologne he’s wearing, that woodsy, expensive scent, suddenly feels cloying in my nostrils.
“So your solution is scheduled blowjobs?” I hiss.
Stay professional. Don’t throw the tablet at his perfect face.
Camilla winces. “Perhaps we should leave you two to discuss this privately—”
“No need,” I cut her off. “I think we should be perfectly clear about what’s being proposed here.”
I stand, letting the bathrobe swish dramatically around my legs. My heart hammers in my chest, but I force my voice to remain level.
“Let me make sure I understand, Mr. Rossi. Not only do you expect me to put my life on hold for thirty days, live in your home, and pretend to be madly in love with you in public, you also want guaranteed sexual services? Once on day two. Another on day fourteen.”
Dom’s jaw tightens. “The clause simply establishes parameters for maintaining the illusion of a genuine relationship.”
“Parameters?” I laugh, the sound brittle in the tense room. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Calm down. This is just a negotiation. Use it.
Arthur clears his throat again. “Ms. Cole, if you find the provision unacceptable—”
“Double it,” I interrupt.
Dom blinks. “Excuse me?”
“The settlement. Double it to five hundred thousand. Plus an immediate advance of one hundred thousand for incidentals.” I lift my chin. “If you want to add sexual services to this arrangement, they come at a premium. I’m not some cheap, low class escort.”
Did I seriously just put a price tag on my body? What the hell am I doing?
But the businesswoman in me recognizes leverage when I see it. And right now, with Dom’s billion-dollar deal hanging in the balance, I have it.
A flicker of surprise crosses Dom’s face, quickly replaced by something else. Interest? Respect? Maybe even a hint of desire?
“Incidentals?” he asks, voice lower than before.
“I’m told portraying the wife of a billionaire requires a certain image,” I say coolly. “Designer clothes, accessories, salon services. You wouldn’t want your fake wife looking like she shops at Target for the month, would you?”
Not that there’s anything wrong with Target. I love Target.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
The corner of Dom’s mouth twitches. “Fine. Double the settlement, plus the advance.”
Wait, what? Just like that?
I was expecting at least some pushback, not immediate capitulation. Either he’s desperate or that kind of money means nothing to him.
Probably both. Billionaires, am I right?
“Arthur, make the changes,” Dom instructs, not taking his eyes off me.
I feel a strange flush creeping up my neck under his intense gaze. The bastard is looking at me like I’m a particularly interesting puzzle he’s trying to solve. That, or some expensive masturbation toy.
“So we’re agreed?” Camilla asks, looking between us. “Thirty days, doubled settlement, advance payment, and... all clauses remain?”
The reality of what I’ve just negotiated hits me. I’ve basically agreed to be Dom’s temporary wife-with-benefits for a hefty price tag.
What would my mother think? Actually, scratch that. Mom would probably high-five me and ask if he has a brother.
“I have one more condition,” I say, surprising myself. “I want it in writing that I can veto any public appearances that conflict with my work schedule. My career at Blackwell Innovations remains my priority.”
Dom nods. “Reasonable.”
“And I want a separate bedroom at your place.”
His eyes darken slightly. “Also reasonable. Though it might raise questions if anyone from the press gets wind of it.”
“I don’t think the press will be inspecting our sleeping arrangements,” I counter. “Unless you regularly invite paparazzi into your bedroom?”
“Only on special occasions,” he deadpans.
Is he... joking with me? The Dom I’ve glimpsed at Blackwell’s office has always been serious, intense, focused. This hint of dry humor catches me off guard.
Arthur taps away on his laptop. “I’ll have the revised agreement ready within the hour. We can finalize everything before returning to New York.”
“When are we leaving?” I ask, suddenly remembering my friends, my luggage in another hotel room, my entire life that’s been derailed.
“The jet is fueled and waiting,” Camilla says. “We’d like to have you both back in New York by evening if possible. The sooner we can establish the official narrative, the better.”
Private jet. Of course. Is this my life now?
“I need to get my things from the other hotel,” I say. “And talk to my friends.”
Dom nods. “Jake can accompany you.”
“Jake?”
“Head of security,” he explains. “The press is already camping downstairs. You’ll need protection.”
The word ‘protection’ sends an unexpected shiver through me. I ignore it.
“Fine. But I’m not leaving Vegas until I have the revised agreement and the advance in my account.”
Dom’s lips curve slightly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if I’ve just been insulted or complimented. His dark eyes reveal nothing.
“Laptop, please?” I ask Arthur.
The lawyer arches an eyebrow. “Why?”
“So I can enter my account number...”
He loads up a text editor and tilts the laptop my way. I enter my account information.
“Also,” Dom continues. “I’d like you to accompany me to Marco’s wedding reception before our flight. I promised I’d drop in. It will be a chance to make our first public appearance and present a unified front.”
“Whatever, but I need clothes,” I say, glancing down at my bathrobe. “Unless you expect me to meet with your security team like this?”
Dom gestures toward the walk-in closet. “Help yourself to whatever fits. The hotel staff brought up some options while you were on the phone.”
I cross to the closet and find an assortment of designer clothes of varying sizes, the tags still attached. The casual way wealth flows around Dom is disorienting.
Just another day in billionaire land. “Oh, you need clothes? Here’s ten thousand dollars’ worth of designer threads I conjured from thin air. Sorry if half of them don’t fit.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “I’ll change and be ready to go shortly.”
Arthur and Camilla take that as their cue to step out, murmuring about finalizing documents and coordinating logistics.
Dom lingers.
“We should probably discuss the... parameters of Clause 7b,” he says when we’re alone.
My stomach flip-flops. “What’s to discuss?” I snap. “You want two sexual encounters. You’re paying for them. You see me as little more than a glorified sex toy. End of story.”
His eyes flash. “I don’t want you to feel coerced, Tatiana.”
“Then maybe don’t put sex acts in a legal contract,” I shoot back.
“Would you prefer I remove the clause?” he asks unexpectedly.
I hesitate, and I hate myself for it. The truth is, despite my outrage, part of me is curious. What would it be like to be with Dom again, this time without drugs blurring the experience? The marks on my neck suggest it was pretty damn good the first time.
You’re actually considering this? What happened to never being vulnerable again?
Then again, the clause only stipulates his ‘release.’ Which means there’s no actual requirement for me to fuck me. I can give him oral and be done with it.
Probably for the best, really.
“Keep the clause,” I say finally, not wanting to risk losing out on any of the money. “You obviously think it’s important for your... image.”
Something that might be relief crosses his face. “For the record, I don’t typically need to contractually obligate women to suck my dick.”
“First time for everything,” I say sweetly, gathering clothes from the closet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to change.”
He nods and moves toward the door but pauses with his hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, Tatiana, I think you’re handling this situation remarkably well.”
The unexpected compliment catches me off-guard. Before I can formulate a response, he’s gone, closing the door behind him.
I sink onto the bed, designer clothes clutched to my chest, and take a deep breath.
Thirty days. Five hundred thousand dollars. Two scheduled blowjobs with a man who makes my skin tingle even when I want to throttle him.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?