18. Tatiana
18
Tatiana
W orking late in Dom’s penthouse is doing absolutely nothing to quiet my brain. It’s been twenty-four hours since... well, since what was supposed to be a clinical contract fulfillment turned into the kind of mind-blowing sex that ruins a girl. Not that I’m admitting that out loud. Ever.
Real professional, Tatiana. Get dicked down by your temporary husband and now you can’t focus on a simple vendor contract.
I stare at my laptop screen, trying to concentrate on the Costa Rica resort documentation I’ve meticulously prepared for him. The numbers and bullet points blur together as my mind replays his hands on my thighs, his mouth between my legs, the way he—
“Nope.” I say it out loud, as if that might actually stop my thoughts. “We are not doing this right now.”
My phone pings with a text from Dom.
Still working on that vendor brief?
I roll my eyes. Like he doesn’t know exactly what I’m doing at 9 PM on a Wednesday night in his penthouse. Yes. I’ll have the finalized version for your approval in 20.
His response is almost immediate: No need. Coming home. Wait for me.
Coming home.
Not “returning to the penthouse” or “heading back now.”
Coming home.
As if this is actually my home. As if we’re actually married in any way that counts.
Don’t read into it. It’s just a figure of speech. This man left literal bite marks on your inner thigh last night and then basically sprinted from your bedroom like it was on fire.
I check my appearance in the reflection of my laptop screen. Hair’s a mess. I pull it into a neat bun, then immediately take it down again.
“What are you doing?” I mutter to myself. “He’s seen you naked. And orgasming. A messy bun is hardly going to shatter the illusion of competence at this point.”
I make myself focus on the task at hand. The vendor contract requires Dom’s final approval, and I’ve created a concise one-page summary with the three best options clearly outlined, complete with pros and cons in neat bullet points. It’s a masterpiece of efficiency. The kind of thing that would make my Business Administration professors weep with pride.
The front door opens twenty minutes later, and my heart rate inexplicably doubles.
It’s just Dom. Your temporary husband. Your business associate.
The guy who made you scream his name last night.
“Evening,” he says, shrugging off his suit jacket as he enters. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s been in meetings all day. “How’s the vendor brief coming?”
“Finished.” I hand him the tablet with my pristine document displayed. “Three options, ranked by cost-efficiency and sustainability metrics. The first option gives us the best balance of—”
“No.” He doesn’t even look at the screen.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, no, I don’t want to review it like this.” He tosses his jacket over a chair and loosens his tie. “Come with me.”
He strides toward his home office without checking if I’m following. I’m tempted to stay put out of pure stubbornness, but curiosity wins out.
At least that’s what we’re calling it. Curiosity. Not the fact that his ass looks incredible in those pants.
His office is a designer’s wet dream (if not mine). Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, a sleek desk, and a massive whiteboard covering one wall. He’s already uncapping a marker when I enter.
“I need to think this through differently,” he says, drawing what appears to be the rough layout of the resort. “The vendor choice impacts the overall sustainability narrative.”
I cross my arms. “That’s why I prepared a comprehensive analysis with all sustainability metrics clearly listed in column three.”
He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “If we go with traditional suppliers for the structural elements, but showcase innovation in the visible aspects...”
For the next twenty minutes, I watch him pace, sketch, erase, and mutter to himself. My neat, organized approach to problem-solving is being trampled by his chaotic, big-picture brainstorming, and it’s driving me absolutely insane.
“Dom, if you’d just look at the document—”
“The ocean-facing facade needs to harmonize with the local ecosystem,” he continues, drawing sweeping arcs across the board. “The materials have to tell a story of respect for the natural environment while still delivering luxury.”
I should be frustrated. I am frustrated. But there’s something magnetic about watching him work like this. His focus absolute, his passion radiating off him like heat. He’s transformed from the cool, controlled businessman into something wilder, more primal. It’s the same transformation I witnessed last night when he—
Focus, Tatiana.
“What if we integrate living walls?” He turns to me suddenly, eyes bright with excitement. “Native plants throughout the structure, maintained by a gravity-fed irrigation system using collected rainwater?”
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. “That would require a complete redesign of the water management system.”
“Yes!” He grabs another marker. “And it would be worth every penny. Imagine walking through corridors lined with indigenous flora, the scent of jasmine and orchids greeting you with each step.”
I can almost smell it... fresh, earthy, alive. And suddenly I get it. This isn’t just a luxury resort to him. It’s a vision, a dream manifested in concrete and steel and living things.
“You’d need to factor in maintenance costs,” I say, stepping closer to the whiteboard. “And train local staff on proper care techniques.”
He nods enthusiastically. “We could partner with a botanical research center. Make it educational as well as beautiful.”
For the next hour, we bounce ideas back and forth. My bullet points and spreadsheets forgotten as I’m pulled into his creative vortex. I find myself gesturing wildly, sketching alongside him, our hands occasionally brushing in a way that sends little electric shocks up my arm.
When we finally pause for breath, the whiteboard is a magnificent mess of interconnected ideas, arrows, and scribbles that somehow make perfect sense to both of us.
“This is why I couldn’t just review your document,” he says softly. “I needed to see it, to feel it. Understand how all the pieces fit together.”
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I glimpse something beyond the billionaire facade. A creator, a visionary, a man who cares deeply about building something meaningful.
“I get it,” I admit. “But next time, maybe start with ‘I’d like to brainstorm’ instead of just saying ‘no?’”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Where’s the fun in that?”
God help me, I actually find his arrogance charming now.
“So,” I say, gesturing to our beautiful chaos. “Which vendor do we go with?”
He studies the board for a moment, then points confidently to my second option. The one I secretly thought was best all along.
“That one. They understand what we’re trying to create.”
I bite back a smile. “That’s the conclusion my spreadsheet would have led you to an hour ago.”
“But without understanding why,” he counters. “And the why matters to me.”
Our eyes meet again, and I feel something dangerous unfurling in my chest. Something that has nothing to do with contracts or clauses or the countdown that’s constantly running in the back of my mind.
The markers are all capped now, our collaborative masterpiece spread across the whiteboard like a beautiful mess. The energy between us has shifted, charged with something I’m afraid to name.
I take a deep breath. “Can we address the elephant in the room?”
His expression shutters immediately, like watching security gates slam down at closing time.
“What elephant?” he asks, though we both know exactly what I’m talking about.
Coward. Both of us, really.
“Last night,” I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Us. What happened.”
He turns away, suddenly very interested in straightening markers that are already perfectly aligned.
“It was just release,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “Clause fulfillment. Nothing more. Nothing has changed between us.”
Something in my chest deflates like a sad birthday balloon three days after the party.
“Oh. Okay.” I nod, as if this is exactly the answer I expected. Wanted, even.
What did you think he was going to say, genius? ‘Actually, Tatiana, I’ve fallen madly in love with you and want to make this temporary marriage real?’ Get a grip. Remember what Rylan did. Don’t give Dom the opportunity to do the same.
“Good,” I add, because apparently I enjoy emotional self-flagellation. “We’re on the same page then.”
“Exactly.” He still won’t look at me directly. “This is a business arrangement. Both parties get what they need. End of story.”
“Right. Thirty days, then an annulment. Clean break.” The words taste like cardboard in my mouth.
He finally turns to face me, and those walls are higher than I’ve ever seen them. Reinforced concrete with barbed wire on top.
“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” he says abruptly. “I should get some sleep.”
Translation: this conversation is over, please see yourself out.
“Of course,” I tell him. “I should finish up a few things for Christopher anyway.”
I gather my laptop and notes, painfully aware of how he keeps a careful distance between us. No accidental touches now. No electric fingers brushing against mine.
It’s fine. This is what we agreed to.
This is what I want.
Liar.
As I head toward the door, I pause, unable to help myself. “The resort plans look good. Your investors will be impressed.”
“Thank you for your input,” he replies, all corporate politeness.
And just like that, we’re back to being business associates who happen to be temporarily, legally bound to each other. Nothing more, nothing less.
Fifteen more days, Tatiana. Just fifteen more days.
But as I walk back to my room, I’m no longer certain that countdown is something I’m looking forward to.