14. Dominic
14
Dominic
I lean against the dining room wall, watching Chef Antoine put the finishing touches on tonight’s meal. The rich aroma of truffle and herbs fills the air as he artfully arranges the seared scallops around a delicate risotto center. His movements are precise, almost hypnotic in their efficiency, each garnish placed with surgical precision.
“Monsieur Rossi, the saffron sauce,” Antoine says, presenting a small copper pot for my approval. I nod, impressed as always by his attention to detail.
“Perfect,” I tell him. “And the wine?”
“The Puligny-Montrachet is breathing, as you requested.” He gestures to the decanter on the sideboard. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you. You can leave the rest on the warming trays.”
As Antoine disappears into the kitchen, I check my watch. Seven fifty-five. Tatiana will likely be punctual. She usually operates like a Swiss timepiece, predictable and precise in her movements.
Unlike the chaos I deliberately created for her this morning.
I smile, recalling how I scattered blueprints across her meticulously organized desk before leaving for work, without her knowing about it. A childish move, but I couldn’t resist disrupting her perfect order. There’s something about her rigid organization that both impresses and irritates me. Everything aligned at perfect angles, not a paper clip out of place.
When I returned home, I found the blueprints meticulously reorganized, each corner aligned with geometric precision. She fixed my deliberate mess with a Post-It note that read: “Please don’t use my desk as a dumping ground for your architectural blueprints.” Which somehow made it even more satisfying.
Small victories.
I pour myself a glass of scotch, wondering why I feel compelled to provoke her. Maybe it’s the distance she maintains, the clinical way she fulfilled our first clause obligation. Maybe it’s seeing her competence in handling the supplier call. Or maybe I’m just a fucking child who can’t handle someone else’s control in my space.
The sound of a door opening draws my attention. Tatiana emerges from the guest suite, dressed in one of her new power suits, this one in a deep navy that highlights the elegant curves of her figure.
Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in the elaborate table setting, the candles, the carefully plated food.
“I thought we were just having a business dinner,” she says, approaching cautiously.
“We are.” I pull out her chair. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t eat well. Antoine outdid himself tonight.”
She hesitates before taking her seat. “Your personal chef prepared all this? For a business meeting?”
“Antoine prepares all my meals when I’m home.” I shrug, taking the chair opposite her. “One of the perks of this arrangement, for you.”
“Along with the security detail following me everywhere and...” She lowers her voice, not wanting Antoine to hear. “The contractual sexual obligations?” Her voice is smooth but carries an edge. Louder: “Such perks.”
I laugh despite myself. “The food is the only perk I’m offering tonight. Investor strategies, remember?”
She glances at the scallops, her expression softening slightly. “It does look amazing.”
“Try it before making your final assessment.”
She takes a careful bite, and I watch with satisfaction as appreciation flickers across her face.
“It is amazing,” she admits.
“Antoine trained in Paris before working for several heads of state. I stole him from the French ambassador three years ago.”
As I reach across to pour her wine, I notice something gleaming on her wrist. A watch I haven’t seen before.
“That’s new,” I say, nodding toward the Cartier Tank on her wrist. “Good choice. Classic design.”
She glances down at it, a subtle hint of pride crossing her face. “I decided to invest in something timeless.”
“It suits you,” I tell her, genuinely appreciating both the watch and what it represents... her taking ownership of this strange situation we’re in. I respect that she’s using the advance to build something for herself, not just playing the role of billionaire’s wife.
“Thank you,” she replies, her fingers brushing over the face briefly before returning to her portfolio.
“You’re welcome.” I study her a moment. “Now, the contractor proposals. What did you think?”
She takes a sip of wine, then reaches for her ever-present portfolio. “Overall, they’re solid, but I have concerns about the material sourcing claims for the main structure. The sustainability metrics seem overstated.”
“You caught that, too?” I’m genuinely impressed. “I had the same concern.”
“I also think their timeline is unrealistic given the seasonal rainfall patterns in that region of Costa Rica.”
Fuck. I hadn’t even considered that angle. “What makes you say that?”
“I pulled weather data for the last five years.” She opens her laptop to show me a detailed spreadsheet. “Their construction schedule has major foundation work happening during what’s historically been the wettest months. It’s either na?ve or deliberately misleading.”
I lean closer to examine her analysis, acutely aware of her scent as I do. Clean and subtly floral, professional yet feminine.
And dangerously distracting.
“This is good work,” I admit, straightening up. “Really good.”
“I know,” she says simply, closing her laptop and returning to her meal. “Now, about the investor strategy. What exactly are you looking for from me?”
“Direct insights,” I reply, taking a bite of my own food. “You’ve reviewed all the materials. If you were an investor with conservative tendencies, what would your concerns be about Serenity Shores?”
She considers this while taking another sip of wine. “Three main issues. Return timeline, environmental impact credentials, and your personal stability.” She says the last part with a pointed look.
I raise an eyebrow. “My personal stability?”
“Your reputation matters to these investors. The Vegas wedding threw them off balance. They’re wondering what other impulsive decisions you might make.”
“Hence our current arrangement,” I gesture between us with my fork.
“Exactly,” she nods. “But it’s not enough to simply appear married. You need to project stability in all aspects. These investors need to believe you’re a man who makes calculated decisions, not rash ones.”
“I am that man,” I insist. “Vegas was an anomaly.”
“Tell that to the marriage certificate with our names on it,” she counters.
I can’t help but laugh. “Fair point. So what do you suggest?”
“A narrative shift. Instead of focusing on damage control, position the resort as the culmination of years of strategic planning. Your magnum opus. The passion project you’ve been meticulously developing.”
Her business acumen continues to surprise me. Not just the analysis, but the strategic thinking. Twenty-six days from now, when our arrangement ends, I’m going to be losing a valuable asset.
Antoine bids farewell and leaves us alone in the penthouse, and we transition from dinner to work mode, spreading documents across the table as we refine the investor presentation. The wine loosens the tension between us slightly, making our collaboration easier.
“These projections need updating based on the rainfall data,” she says, reaching for a sheet of paper just as I do.
Our hands touch. A jolt of electricity passes between us. Neither of us pulls away immediately, both frozen in the unexpected contact.
Her eyes meet mine, and I see something flicker there. I immediately think about the next clause fulfillment, still ten days away. The thought sends heat coursing through me, and I finally withdraw my hand.
“You take it,” I mutter, voice rougher than intended.
She clears her throat and takes the paper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in what seems like a nervous gesture. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in her perfect composure since that night in her suite.
“Day four,” she says quietly, eyes on the document.
“What?”
“Of thirty,” she clarifies. “We’re on day four.”
The reminder of our countdown hangs between us, loaded with unspoken tension. Twenty-six more days of this strange dance. Twenty-six more days of living together, working together, pretending to be something we’re not.
And only ten days until I’m entitled to touch her again.
Only? Seems like an eternity, at the moment.
“Let’s focus on the presentation,” I say, pushing the thought away. But it lingers, distracting me as we work side by side into the evening. Our shoulders occasionally brush, creating sparks neither of us acknowledge.
When we finally finish, it’s past midnight. She stands, gathering her notes.
“Your coffee mug collection,” she says suddenly.
“What about it?”
“It’s strange. Everything else in this penthouse follows your creative chaos approach. But the mugs...” She gestures toward the kitchen shelf where my collection sits. “Those are arranged in some deliberate order I can’t figure out. Not alphabetical, not by size, not by color. But definitely intentional.” She looks genuinely perplexed. “Why just those?”
I’m surprised she noticed this one inconsistency in my otherwise disorganized lifestyle. “They’re arranged by acquisition date. Oldest to newest.”
She studies me for a moment, as if seeing something unexpected. “Sentimental value in chronological order. The one thing you actually organize.” A small smile plays at her lips. “Interesting.” Before I can respond, she adds, “Thanks for dinner. The presentation is solid now.”
As she walks away, I realize something unsettling.
Despite my earlier pettiness, despite the contractual nature of our relationship, and despite everything that should keep us at arm’s length, Tatiana Cole is beginning to see me.
The real me, beyond the billionaire facade.
And that might be the most dangerous development yet.