13. Tatiana
13
Tatiana
I ’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that I just gave my temporary husband a blow job the other night, or the fact that I’m actually considering his job offer.
My life has become a series of absurd decisions, each more bizarre than the last. Though to be fair, none quite match the sheer lunacy of accidentally marrying Dominic Rossi in Vegas.
Speaking of my accidental spouse, Mr. Billionaire apparently decided that 6 AM was the perfect time to transform my guest suite desk into his personal architectural explosion. He’d scattered blueprints everywhere. With corners overlapping, pages misaligned, probably arranged in the exact opposite order of importance. Subtle psychological warfare, Manhattan edition. Of course I reorganized them immediately, arranging everything in crisp, parallel stacks with color-coded sticky notes. Because apparently even in temporary marriages, I’m physically incapable of not cleaning up after men. Some habits die harder than my self-respect.
I sip my morning coffee in the guest suite that’s become my temporary prison. Sorry, I mean my “luxury accommodation.” The espresso machine in the kitchen cost an arm and a leg. The coffee is rich and perfect, with hints of chocolate and something earthy. At least there are perks to this gilded cage.
Look at you, Tatiana. A couple of days ago you were down on your knees for a billionaire, today you’re critiquing his coffee like some kind of connoisseur.
What’s next? Yacht shopping?
I push away the memory. The way I knelt before him. The weight of him on my tongue. The unexpected thrill that shot through me when he warned me he was about to cum. The way I didn’t hesitate to swallow.
That part wasn’t in the contract. I could have finished him with my hand. But something primal in me wanted to taste him, to complete the act properly. Which is... concerning.
I’m not supposed to be enjoying any of this. It’s a business transaction. A clause I agreed to for a hundred thousand dollars per occurrence. Nothing more.
But my body betrayed me. I was turned on. So fucking turned on that afterward, I had to... take care of myself. Quietly. In the shower. With the water running to mask any sounds.
I didn’t expect that. Didn’t want it.
Don’t want it.
Stop lying to yourself. He’s hot and you know it. Rich and powerful, too. A catch among catches. And best of all, you get to have him all over again. On Day 14. Maybe this time we can go further. We can—
I firmly shake my head.
Nope. Just nope.
Nope nope NOPE!
I won’t let myself.
He’s exactly the type that would leave you at the altar if you let yourself fall for him. To think otherwise is to live in a fantasy world.
My phone chimes with a text from Dom. Speak of the devil.
Initial Serenity Shores contractor proposals sent to your email. Review by tomorrow if you’re accepting the consulting role.
No “please.” No “thank you.” Not even a “good morning” after I had his dick in my mouth not so long ago. Typical.
I text back: Will review today. Sending contract terms for the consulting work this afternoon.
His response comes immediately: Contract? You already signed one.
I actually laugh out loud at that. Does he really think I’ll do this without more compensation? I start to type: The contract is for marriage and sexual services...
I quickly delete that. It’s not wise to send unsecure texts detailing your temporary marriage. So instead I go with: Existing contract isn’t for resort consulting.
There’s a pause, then: Fine. Send terms.
That’s right. This isn’t amateur hour. You want my brain? You pay for it separately from my other... services.
I open my laptop to quickly draft a consulting agreement before work. The standard hourly rate I’ve researched for this type of work is eye-watering, but I figure if anyone can afford it, it’s him. Besides, I’m worth every penny.
I send off the consulting agreement. My phone dings five minutes later.
Hourly rate acceptable.
Jesus. He really wants me to work on this that badly? I almost don’t know what to think. Surely he has an army of people who could work on this for him? Why me? Is it because he...
No. He just values my services. Like Christopher does. Yes, this is entirely professional.
I glance at the clock. I need to get moving. Christopher expects me at the office by 9, and it’s already 7:45. I’m just about to head for the shower when my phone rings again.
It’s Mom.
Shit.
I take a deep breath before answering. “Hi, Mom.”
“Tatiana Nicole Cole! When were you going to tell me you got married?” Her voice is a mixture of hurt and excitement.
Double shit. The news has clearly made it to their small Minnesota town.
She was never a big social media person. Mom still prints out Google Map directions and thinks “going viral” means someone coughed without covering their mouth. I’d been clinging to the desperate hope that my matrimonial disaster would somehow sail over her small-town radar.
So much for my brilliant “ignore it and it’ll go away” strategy.
“I was planning to call you today, actually,” I lie smoothly. “Everything happened so quickly.”
“Mrs. Petersen showed me the article online. My daughter married to Dominic Rossi! The billionaire! When did you even meet him? You never mentioned dating anyone!”
Because I wasn’t. Until I woke up married to one after a drug-induced blackout in Vegas. But that’s not exactly Parent-Approved Life Choices 101.
“We’ve known each other through work for a while,” I say, sticking to the PR-approved script Camilla drilled into us. “He’s friends with Christopher. We’ve been keeping things private.”
“But a Vegas wedding? That’s not like you, honey. After... well, after what happened with Rylan, I thought you’d want something traditional.”
The mention of Rylan’s name sends an icy spike through my chest. Rylan. The man who left me standing alone at the altar two years ago. The source of the worst humiliation of my life.
“This was different, Mom,” I say, my voice tight. “It just felt... right.”
I’m gonna need a fire extinguisher for my pants at this rate...
“Well, your father and I are just shocked. But happy for you, of course! When can we meet him?”
I close my eyes. This is the worst part. Dragging my parents into this charade.
“We’re both really busy right now. His resort project is in a critical phase. But soon, I promise.”
We chat for a few more moments. I deflect questions about a reception or family celebration. By the time I hang up, I’m officially running late.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, rushing through my shower and morning routine in record time. I throw on one of my new power suits... a charcoal gray number with subtle pinstripes that screams “competent executive” rather than “billionaire’s arm candy.”
Jake is waiting when I emerge in the lobby downstairs. “Good morning, Mrs. Rossi. The car is ready whenever you are.”
“Thanks, Jake. And seriously, call me Tatiana.”
“Yes, Mrs. Rossi.”
Grr...
The ride to Blackwell Innovations is surreal. I’ve made this commute hundreds of times before, but never with a security detail, never in a luxury town car, and certainly never as the temporary bride of Dominic Rossi.
Dom’s security guys wait in the building lobby as I take the elevator up to Christopher’s office.
The moment I take a seat behind the reception desk, my intercom buzzes.
“Would you join me, Tatiana?” he says.
Great. This should be fun.
Christopher is waiting in his office, scrolling through emails. He looks up when I enter.
“Tatiana,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “How’s married life?”
We’d already talked about this yesterday. Why—
Then understanding dawns.
“Dom told you everything.” It’s not a question.
Christopher leans back in his chair. “He did.”
Of course he did.
Christopher adds: “Quite a predicament you two have gotten yourselves into.”
“It’s under control,” I assure him, slipping into my professional persona. “It won’t affect my work here.”
“I know it won’t.” He hands me a folder. “The Singapore deal. And...” he pauses, “if you need time for your, ah, other commitments, let me know.”
“Thank you,” I say, grateful he’s not making this awkward. “I appreciate your understanding.”
When I get to my desk, I pull up the contractor proposals Dom sent. Might as well multitask. Between meetings and my regular workload, I manage to review three of the five proposals by lunch.
The fourth proposal is from a sustainable architecture firm that specializes in eco-friendly building methods. As I scroll through their detailed plans for locally-sourced materials and energy-efficient designs, an unwelcome memory surfaces.
The day Rylan and I met with our wedding venue contractors. The way we looked at sample seating arrangements for the reception, picked out eco-friendly wedding favors. His arm around my waist as we selected the perfect garden gazebo for the ceremony. The deposit checks I wrote, the timelines I created, the spreadsheets tracking every detail.
What I didn’t know then was that while I was meticulously planning our future, he was sleeping with his coworker. The same coworker he married three months after leaving me at the altar.
I close the browser tab, suddenly unable to focus. The familiar tightness returns to my chest. The feeling of being replaceable. Disposable.
Don’t go there. This situation with Dom is completely different. It’s temporary. Contractual. You’re not investing emotionally.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Despite my best intentions, I’m investing. I know I am. I can’t help it.
Last night, watching Dom’s reaction to my business acumen after the supplier call. The way his eyes widened slightly when I switched to Spanish during the call. That little nod he gave when I countered Jorge’s best argument. And worst of all, the rush of satisfaction that flooded through me when he said I was “fucking impressive.” Like I’d won some kind of trophy in the Impress the Billionaire Olympics.
Listen to yourself, Tatiana. You’re preening because he noticed you have a brain. What’s next? Doodling “Mrs. Rossi” in your planner? Planning what to name your imaginary children? God, you’re pathetic. One business compliment and you’re halfway to picking bridesmaid dresses... again.
And then there’s the whole matter of how he tasted... no, not going to go there again.
Anyway, my point is, all of this, my wanting to impress him, wanting to taste him... it makes him incredibly dangerous to me.
Because men like Dominic Rossi, you know, those powerful, wealthy men accustomed to getting exactly what they want, they don’t marry women like me for real. They use them, then discard them when something better comes along.
Just like Rylan.
I force myself to return to my actual work. Work. Focus on work. That’s what I’m good at. That’s what doesn’t betray me.
By five o’clock, I’ve finished my regular workload and completed my notes on all the contractor proposals, highlighting strengths, weaknesses, and compatibility with the resort’s sustainability goals. I’ve also finalized a comprehensive consulting agreement that would make my business law professor proud. Plus I’ve mostly caught up on the Singapore deal for Christopher. Not quite, though... I’ll have to work on it more when I get back to the penthouse.
The fact that I prioritized Dominic’s work over Christopher’s is unfortunately telling...
Don’t get attached...
A text from Dom interrupts my flow.
Dinner tonight at the penthouse. 8pm. Need to discuss investor meeting strategy.
Not a request. A command.
I text back: Will 8pm be before or after you learn to phrase questions as questions instead of commands?
His response takes a minute. I can almost see that steely glint that always appears in his eyes when I defy him. Finally: Would you please join me for dinner at 8pm to discuss investor strategies?
I smile despite myself. Billionaire training successful!
Who am I kidding? I don’t think a man like Dominic Rossi can ever be trained.
See you at 8, I text back.
A new determination settles over me. If I’m going to be stuck in this arrangement for another 27 days, I’m going to make the most of it. Professionally. Financially. But not emotionally. Never that.
I pack up my things and text Jake that I’m ready to leave. But instead of heading straight back to the penthouse, I make a decision.
“Jake, I need to make a stop first.”
He nods, professional as always. “Where to, Mrs. Rossi?”
“Fifth Avenue. Cartier.”
If his eyebrows rise slightly, he’s too well-trained to comment further.
The Cartier boutique is hushed and elegant. A sales associate approaches immediately, respectful but not obsequious, perhaps recognizing the quality of my new wardrobe despite my relative youth.
26 is still young, isn’t it?
“I’m looking for a Tank Must De Cartier watch,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the price tag I know is coming.
“Of course, madam. We have several options. Is this for a special occasion?”
My temporary billionaire husband paid me for sexual services and I need to regain some control over my life.
“Just a gift for myself,” I reply.
She brings out several options. I try them each on, but I know which one I want. The classic Tank with the steel case and black alligator strap. Timeless. Elegant. Something that will still be valuable long after this marriage is annulled.
“This one,” I decide.
The price makes my stomach flip, but I sign the credit card receipt without hesitation. Four thousand dollars. A month ago, this would have been unthinkable. Now, it’s barely a dent in my advance payment.
As the associate places the distinctive red box in a bag, I feel a strange mix of emotions. Pride in being able to afford something so luxurious. Disgust at how I earned the money. And something else... a small thrill of independence.
This watch is mine. Not a gift from Dom. Not dependent on our arrangement. Something I chose and purchased myself.
I fasten it around my wrist as soon as I leave the store. The weight of it feels significant. A reminder that no matter what happens with Dom, this month is an investment in my future.
Security is waiting for me. They lead me to the car, and as we pull away from the curb, I glance at my new purchase. The seconds tick by, each one bringing me closer to dinner with Dom.
And closer to Day 14.
The day that’s already hijacking my mental real estate like an unwelcome squatter. The day I’m contractually obligated to get on my knees again for him. Twelve days of overthinking, overanalyzing, and trying desperately not to remember how much I secretly enjoyed the last time.
Way to go, Tatiana. You’ve officially reached a new level of dysfunction when you’re literally counting down the days until your next scheduled sexual transaction. Most women mark their calendars for promotions or vacations. You? Billionaire blow jobs. Your therapist would have a field day with this... if you could ever admit any of this to another human being.
No. I force myself to stare at my new watch instead, tracing the clean lines of the face with my fingertip.
Four thousand dollars of pure independence, right there on my wrist. A tangible reminder that I’m not some lovesick idiot falling for her boss’s rich friend. I’m a business-minded woman making calculated decisions for financial gain. The physical stuff? Just a bizarre clause in an even more bizarre contract. His release, my payday. Nothing more than a high-end transaction between consenting adults.
Keep telling yourself that while you’re buying lingerie for the occasion. Oh, you know you will.
I sigh. Well, on the bright side, it will all be over soon enough. The marriage, the awkward dinners, the clause fulfillments. Just twenty-six more days of this surreal experiment in matrimonial theater, and then I can go back to my regular life... just significantly wealthier and with better accessories.
I just need to remember the stakes. Remember Rylan. Remember that developing feelings for Dominic Rossi would be the biggest mistake of my life.
Bigger even than marrying him in the first place.
You’ve got this, Tatiana.
Just keep your legs closed.
And your bank account open.