10. Tatiana
10
Tatiana
T he elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, revealing a wide shared hallway. Dom’s head of security, Jake, steps out first, scanning the space with practiced efficiency.
“All clear, Mrs. Rossi,” he says, gesturing for me to exit.
I step into the hallway, my small suitcase trailing behind me. “Just Tatiana is fine.”
“Yes, Mrs. Rossi.”
So that’s going well.
We reach a set of imposing double doors at the end of the hallway. Jake produces a key card, swipes it, and pushes the door open.
“Welcome to Mr. Rossi’s residence,” he announces, as if introducing me to a small country rather than an apartment.
The word “apartment” doesn’t begin to cover it. Dom’s Tribeca penthouse unfolds before me like something from an architectural magazine spread. All clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, and tasteful, expensive-looking modern art pieces.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, immediately regretting the slip when Jake raises an eyebrow.
Professional, Tatiana. Remember, you’re supposed to be the billionaire’s sophisticated wife, not some wide-eyed tourist at the Met. Besides, you’ve been to Christopher’s apartment often enough. It’s not so different.
“Your suite is this way,” Jake says, leading me through the open-concept living area.
Suite. Of course. Normal people have rooms; billionaires have suites.
The guest suite is roughly the size of my entire apartment, with a king-sized bed that looks like it could comfortably sleep a basketball team. The bathroom has a shower big enough for... activities I’m not going to think about right now.
Jake sets my suitcase by the bed. “Mr. Rossi wanted me to inform you that Mr. Holloway, the estate manager, will be available should you need anything.”
“Estate manager. Right.” I nod like this is completely normal. “Thank you, Jake.”
When he leaves, I sink onto the edge of the bed and let out a long breath. The mattress feels like it’s cradling me, probably with some space-age memory foam that costs a small fortune.
Don’t get used to it. You’re just temporarily living with your fake billionaire husband in his luxury penthouse while security guards watch your every move.
I should unpack, but that feels too... permanent. Instead, I pull out my laptop and open it on the pristine desk by the window. The view of Manhattan from up here is surreal. I can see the Hudson River glittering in the distance, the skyscrapers spreading out around it like dominoes.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. The notification that arrived during our flight is still there: “Transfer complete: $100,000.”
One hundred thousand dollars.
In my account.
Right now.
My stomach flips as I log into my banking app and confirm the balance. There it is, a six-figure sum that makes my usual account balance look like pocket change.
Don’t freak out. It’s just money. Lots and lots of money that you earned by... getting accidentally married to a billionaire and agreeing to suck his dick twice.
I shake the thought away and get to work. This isn’t a windfall; it’s compensation. Security. And I’m going to treat it that way.
Within twenty minutes, I’ve researched and opened a high-yield savings account with a reputable online bank. I transfer most of the advance into it, labeling it simply “T. Cole - Reserve.” Next, I divide another chunk between two Certificates of Deposit... one six-month, one annual. The remaining portion I keep liquid for immediate needs.
Like clothing that doesn’t scream “aspiring executive” but rather “established power player.”
I open tabs for Net-a-Porter and Bergdorf Goodman. If I’m playing billionaire’s wife, I need to look the part. But on my terms. No frilly dresses or trophy wife nonsense.
I select several impeccably tailored pantsuits and structured sheath dresses in navy, charcoal, and black.
Battle gear for the world’s most bizarre temporary job.
The prices make me wince despite the advance. Six hundred dollars for a blouse? Two thousand for a blazer? But I click “confirm order” and select next-day delivery anyway.
You’re investing in yourself, not just playing dress-up for Dom.
My phone buzzes with a text from the man himself, who had his driver take him directly from the airport to his main downtown office for more ‘strategy sessions’ with his legal team.
Camilla will be at the penthouse at 3pm tomorrow. Be prepared.
No “please.” No “thank you.” Just a command.
Tomorrow will have to be a work from home day, then. Christopher will understand.
I text back: I’ll be there.
I pause, then add: Do I need to bring anything besides my winning personality?
His response comes quickly: That might be asking too much.
I actually laugh out loud.
Did Dominic Rossi just make another joke? Alert the media! Oh wait, they’re already camped outside.
I spend the rest of the evening exploring my temporary prison, I mean luxury accommodation. The kitchen is all gleaming stainless steel and marble, stocked with foods I’ve never heard of. The wine rack holds bottles that probably cost more than my car.
I don’t sleep well that night, despite the ridiculously comfortable guest bed. The penthouse makes unfamiliar sounds. The hum of climate control, the occasional ping of the elevator down the hall. Not to mention the opening and closing of the front door when Dominic gets home.
I actually tense up when I hear his footsteps padding by outside, but then relax again when they continue on toward his own suite.
It’s going to be a long 30 days.
The next day, my clothing order arrives promptly at 10 AM, delivered by a white-gloved courier who doesn’t bat an eye when Jake intercepts him at the elevator.
I unwrap each piece carefully, savoring the rustle of tissue paper and the fresh, expensive smell of high-quality fabrics. For the strategy meeting, I select a navy pantsuit with subtle structural details and a cream silk blouse that feels like water against my skin.
At precisely 3 PM, Jake announces Camilla Thorne’s arrival. I’m waiting in the living room, perched on the edge of a sofa that probably costs as much as a semester at Harvard. I haven’t seen Dom all day, though I know he’s here. I heard him talking to his private chef earlier... I’m not totally sure if he’s avoiding me, or if he’s just super busy.
Dom emerges from his home office, looking irritatingly handsome in dark jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater that hugs his broad shoulders. He gives me a once-over, his expression unreadable.
“New clothes?” he asks.
“No, I’ve had this fifteen-hundred-dollar suit hanging in my closet all along,” I reply sweetly. “Just waiting for the right temporary marriage to wear it to.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before Camilla walks in, immaculately dressed in a red power suit, tablet in hand.
“Good, you’re both here,” she says, all business. “We have a lot to cover. Your appearance at Marco’s wedding reception yesterday was just the dress rehearsal. You were among friends there. People who want to believe in your relationship. But when you enter high society or face the general public, it will be a lot trickier. People will be scrutinizing your every move, looking for cracks in your story.”
Great. No pressure or anything. Just convince an army of skeptical socialites that I’m madly in love with the man I’m contractually obligated to blow tomorrow.
For the next hour, Camilla drills us on our “whirlwind romance” narrative. According to the story she’s crafted, Dom and I met six months ago at a Blackwell Innovations event, felt an immediate connection, and began dating discreetly.
“The Vegas wedding was spontaneous but not completely out of character,” she explains. “You’d already been discussing marriage, and the moment just felt right.”
Right. Like getting drugged and making impulsive, legally binding decisions ever feels “right.”
“Any questions?” Camilla asks.
“Just one,” I say. “Does anyone actually believe this fairy tale?”
Dom shoots me a look. Camilla smiles tightly.
“That’s why we need to be convincing,” she says. “Which brings me to public appearances. You’ll need to show appropriate affection. Hand-holding, lingering looks, occasional kisses.”
My stomach does a little flip at the mention of kissing Dom. I glance at him and find him watching me with an intensity that makes my cheeks heat.
“I’ve prepared a list of dos and don’ts,” Camilla continues, handing us each a printout. “Study this. Memorize it. Live it.”
I scan the list. It reads like a manual for faking love:
#1. Maintain eye contact when speaking to each other.
#2. Touch casually and naturally.
#3. Refer to shared experiences or inside jokes.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
“It’s necessary,” Dom counters. “Unless you’d prefer to tank a billion-dollar deal and reveal we were both too drugged to remember our own wedding.”
Camilla winces at his bluntness. “Let’s practice some basic interactions. Dom, put your hand on Tatiana’s lower back as if you’re guiding her somewhere.”
Dom moves closer, his large hand coming to rest just above the curve of my spine. His touch is warm, even through the fabric of my suit. I try not to visibly stiffen.
“Good. Now Tatiana, lean into him slightly, like you’re comfortable with his touch.”
I force myself to relax, shifting my weight toward Dom. His expensive cologne, that woodsy smell mixed with notes of amber, fills my senses.
This is just acting. Like a really elaborate, high-stakes school play.
“Perfect,” Camilla says. “Now, kissing. Nothing passionate in public, but you should appear comfortable with casual affection.”
I turn to Camilla, unable to contain my sarcasm. “You know what? I don’t think casual affection will be a problem.”
“Oh?” She looks surprised.
“Yeah, considering I’ll be sucking his cock tomorrow anyway, I think I can handle a little kiss or a touch on the lower back.”
The room goes dead silent. Camilla’s eyes widen comically. Dom makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh or a cough.
Maybe that was a bit much, Tatiana.
Camilla recovers quickly, clearing her throat. “Yes, well... moving on to scheduled appearances.”
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of public event details, media strategy, and social media guidelines. By the time Camilla leaves, my head is spinning with all the rules of our fabricated relationship.
Dom walks her to the door, then returns to where I’m still sitting.
“That was quite the comment earlier,” he says, his voice low.
I shrug, attempting nonchalance. “Just stating facts.”
“Facts that made my PR consultant blush like a schoolgirl.”
“She’s in public relations. She should be prepared for... relations.”
His lips twitch. “You’re not what I expected, Tatiana Cole.”
“What did you expect? Some meek assistant who trembles beneath your billionaire glare?”
“Something like that.” He steps closer, and when he speaks again, his voice has a very slight earthy rasp to it. “Tomorrow is Day Two.”
The reminder of my contractual obligation sends a flush of heat through me that’s part embarrassment, part something else I don’t want to examine.
“I’m aware of the calendar, thanks.”
His dark eyes search mine. “Nervous?”
“About sucking your dick? Please,” I scoff, projecting far more confidence than I feel. “It’s just a physical act. Nothing to be nervous about.”
Liar, liar, designer pants on fire.
“If you say so.” His voice has dropped even deeper, to a rumble that does funny things to my insides. “Tomorrow. Seven o’clock. My bedroom.”
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving me sitting there with my heart pounding like I’ve run a marathon.
A little more than a day until Clause 7b. No big deal. You’ve done this before... probably. With him... allegedly.
I take a deep, steadying breath and smooth my hands over my new suit.
At least I’ll be well-dressed for the occasion.