12. Dominic
12
Dominic
I check my watch. Five o’clock. Tatiana should be gone from Blackwell Innovations by now. She mentioned having plans with Sabrina and Jess this evening, some shopping trip to burn through more of my money no doubt.
Maybe I’m being too hard on her. She did earn that money, after all.
I send Christopher a quick text.
Still at the office?
His response comes immediately. Just about to leave. What’s up?
That’s surprising. Christopher used to practically live at his desk, often staying until midnight. Marriage has changed him.
Need to talk. Important. 10 minutes?
He doesn’t reply immediately this time. I’m not really looking forward to talking to him, but he is my best friend, and Tatiana’s boss at that, so it has to be done. Still, a part of me hopes he’ll say he’s too busy tonight.
About a minute later: Sure. But make it quick. Lucy’s waiting.
I sigh.
Well, might as well rip the band-aid off.
I grab my jacket and head out, instructing Jake to have Ric bring the car around.
As we pull into traffic, my mind drifts to last night. Her mouth on me. The clinical efficiency of it all.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, annoyed that the memory alone is enough to make me hard again.
“Everything all right, sir?” Jake asks from the driver’s seat, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
“Fine,” I mutter, staring out the window.
But nothing’s fine. I spent the entire day distracted, replaying those moments in her guest suite. The physical release was incredible, exactly what I wanted. So why do I feel so fucking unsettled?
Maybe it’s guilt. I didn’t have to include that clause. It was arrogant, controlling, borderline coercive. The kind of power play that confirms every negative headline ever written about billionaires like me. And yet she didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Just negotiated her price and delivered with mechanical precision.
That’s what’s eating at me, I realize. Not guilt, but the fact that she reduced it to a transaction. Made me feel like just another item on her to-do list. I wanted... what? Resistance? Emotion? Some indication that she was affected by me? That she wants me as badly as I want her?
Fuck. I’m an even bigger asshole than I thought. I’m seriously considering dropping the Day 14 requirement. And yet... I know I won’t be able to bring myself to do it. Feeling her around me, even if only for one last time...
I shake my head.
What am I, a fucking teenage? I have a business to run. Stop this second-guessing, lovey dovey shit. I can fuck anyone I want, whenever I want. I’m Dominic Rossi. I don’t need Tatiana.
The drive to Blackwell’s headquarters takes less time than expected in the early evening traffic. Our office buildings are only a couple of blocks apart as well, so that’s also a factor.
Christopher is already standing when I enter his office. He’s pulling on his coat. Ever since his marriage to Lucy, he looks different somehow. More relaxed. Definitely happier.
It’s so fucking trippy.
“This better be good,” he says, but he’s smiling. “I’m trying this new thing called work-life balance.”
“It suits you,” I say, settling into one of his visitor chairs without waiting for an invitation. Normally I’d grab some scotch from his bar, but he’s in a hurry. “This won’t take long.”
He sits back down, eyebrows raised. “Is this about your sudden nuptials? The Vegas situation?”
“I figured you’d have questions.” I run a hand through my hair, uncertain where to start. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“You mean you didn’t marry my extremely competent executive assistant after a wild night in Vegas?” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “Because the photos in the Post suggest otherwise.”
“We did get married,” I admit. “But it’s not a real marriage. Or at least, not anymore. It’s become a business arrangement.”
I explain the situation concisely. The resort deal. The conservative investors. The deadline. The agreement. I leave out certain details like the fucking “Personal Comfort Clause.” Some things a man keeps to himself, even from his closest friends. Especially considering how much of a bad idea that particular clause was.
Christopher listens without interruption, his expression shifting from amused to serious. When I finish, he just nods.
“So you’re using her,” he says, his voice neutral.
“It’s mutual,” I counter quickly. “She’s being well compensated. Very well compensated.”
“I’m sure.” He taps his fingers against his desk. “Tatiana is smart. Pragmatic. If she agreed to this arrangement, she saw value in it.”
“Exactly.”
“But she’s also loyal. Hardworking. The best assistant I’ve ever had.” He fixes me with a look that makes me shift uncomfortably. “Don’t fuck with her career, Dominic. Or her reputation.”
“That’s not my intention.”
“Intentions are irrelevant. Results matter.” He stands again. “I trust you, but I also respect her. Don’t make me regret staying out of this.”
“We have a contract,” I say, standing as well. “Everything’s professional.”
Christopher snorts. “Nothing about marrying someone in Vegas is professional, fake or otherwise.” He checks his watch. “Now, if that’s all, I have a wife waiting. A real wife.”
Those last three words sting harder than I expect them to.
I force a smile. “That’s all.” I extend my hand. “Thanks for understanding.”
He shakes it firmly. “I understand business necessities. Just remember she’s a person, not a clause in your contract.”
His words hit too close to last night’s events. I nod stiffly and turn to leave.
“And Dom?” he calls after me.
I pause at the door. “Yeah?”
“Congratulations. You managed to marry the only woman I know who might actually be able to handle you.”
I’m still thinking about his words when I arrive home. The penthouse is quiet, but I can see light under Tatiana’s door. She must have returned early.
I consider knocking on her door and apologizing for last night, but then I realize I have nothing to apologize for . She fucking signed the contract. She agreed to every sultry detail.
My phone rings. It’s Arthur, my attorney, with news that one of our key suppliers for the resort is threatening to back out over a contract dispute.
Fuck.
We need them locked in before the investor meeting.
I remember everything Christopher said about Tatiana.
She’s smart. Pragmatic.
Before I can stop myself, I find myself knocking on Tatiana’s door.
She opens it, wearing those same silk pajamas from last night. My body responds immediately to the memory.
“I need your help,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Business matter.”
I’m not really sure why I’m involving her. A part of me knows I should handle this myself or call Arthur back. But some deeper impulse drove me to her door instead. Maybe it’s Christopher’s words about her competence. Maybe it’s seeing how efficiently she handles everything thrown her way. Or maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to be near her again, which is fucked up on multiple levels.
I tell myself it’s purely strategic. She works for Christopher, who negotiates with contractors all the time. She likely has skills I can use. It’s smart business to leverage every resource available, especially with the resort deal hanging in the balance.
But I’m lying to myself. I want to see her in action. Want to watch her do something besides fulfill a contractual sexual obligation with clinical detachment. Want to see if she’s as sharp in business as Christopher claims. And fuck me, but some twisted part of me wants to see if I can get a reaction out of her that isn’t cold calculation.
This is dangerous territory. Mixing business with our already complicated arrangement blurs lines that should stay firmly drawn. But I’m standing at her door anyway, telling myself it’s just business when I know that’s not entirely true.
She raises an eyebrow but steps aside to let me enter. “What kind of business matter?”
I explain the supplier situation, watching her process the information. Her expression shifts from guarded to engaged, her mind clearly working through the problem.
“Let me handle the call,” she says finally.
“You think you can manage Diaz Construction? Jorge is notoriously difficult.”
“I’ve dealt with worse,” she replies, reaching for her laptop. “Christopher had me negotiate with that impossible tech firm in Singapore last quarter. This is straightforward by comparison.”
I watch with growing fascination as she transforms before my eyes. Gone is the detached woman from last night. In her place is a sharp professional whose fingers fly across the keyboard as she pulls up relevant documents, her mind clearly strategizing.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting beside her as she connects the call, speaking perfect Spanish with Jorge Diaz. Her tone is respectful but firm, her knowledge of the contract terms impeccable. When she hints that delays might necessitate exploring alternatives while maintaining our strong preference for quality, I see my opening and jump in with specific numbers.
We’re a surprisingly effective team. By the end of the hour-long call, Diaz has agreed to honor the original terms with only minor adjustments.
When she hangs up, I stare at her with new appreciation. “That was fucking impressive.”
“I’m good at my job,” she says simply, closing her laptop.
“Clearly.” I hesitate, then add, “I could use your help with some other aspects of the resort project.”
“Are you asking me to work for you now?” A hint of amusement crosses her face. “Isn’t the wife role demanding enough?”
“Consider it making yourself useful while collecting your substantial fee.”
“I already have a job.”
“This would be after hours.” I stand, needing to put distance between us. Her competence is unexpectedly arousing. “Think about it.”
She studies me for a moment. “I’ll consider it. Now, if there’s nothing else? Some of us still have work to review before tomorrow.”
Dismissed again, just like last night. It stings, but I nod and head for the door.
“Dominic?” she calls softly.
I turn back, trying to ignore the way my heart rate picks up at just hearing my name on her lips. “Yes?”
“Next time, maybe knock before barging in with work demands at late at night.” Her words are stern but there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I did knock,” I protest.
She pauses, taps her lips, and a faint smile appears. “I suppose you did.”
I return the almost-smile with one of my own. “Good night, wife.”
“Good night.”
I notice she didn’t say “husband” back to me. Of course she fucking didn’t. Why would she? This whole thing is temporary. A business transaction with an expiration date. I need to get my shit together and stop acting like what we have might actually mean something. It doesn’t. It won’t. That’s the fucking point.
For fuck’s sake, get it together Dominic!
I close the door behind me, resting my palm against it briefly. What the hell am I doing? This arrangement is fucking with my head more than I want to admit. I shouldn’t have knocked on her door tonight. Had no business bringing her into resort problems. And then I made it worse, practically begging her to work with me more. On what planet does that make sense?
Christ. Seeing her handle that call like a seasoned negotiator just adds another goddamn layer to this mess in my head.
The same woman who clinically fulfilled that clause last night just saved a million-dollar contract with nothing but her laptop and perfect Spanish.
Both situations executed with precision. Both handled with complete control.
And both situations are destroying any fucking chance I have at maintaining my own control.
FUCK!