20. Tatiana
20
Tatiana
“T he Modern at one o’clock,” Camilla Thorne says, her voice crisp through my phone. “Ms. Sharma specifically requested to meet you.”
It’s Saturday morning, and I wasn’t really planning on attending business meetings today.
Though I suppose I have nothing better to do. And I could use the distraction...
Still, I grip my coffee mug tighter. “And remind me why I can’t politely decline?”
“Because she’s not just any board member. Her support for the Costa Rica project is crucial.” Camilla’s sigh is audible. “This is standard vetting. The perfect wife meets the concerned investor. Simple.”
Simple. Right. Just like rocket science and brain surgery.
“I’ll be there,” I say, keeping my voice professional.
“Wear something impressive but not flashy. Conservative but confident. Sophisticated but approachable.”
I frown. “Should I also solve world hunger before dessert?”
Camilla doesn’t laugh. “This isn’t a joke, Tatiana. Dom is close to sealing the deal. Ms. Sharma is one of the last investors we need to get on board. Don’t mess this up.”
After she hangs up, I relay the lunch plans to Dom, who’s nursing his morning espresso at the kitchen island.
“Ah, Anya,” he says, nodding. “She’s sharp. Old money, traditional values.”
“Should I refuse?” I ask, desperately hoping he’ll say yes.
He shakes his head. “No. Go charm her. You’ve dealt with Christopher’s investors before.”
“As his assistant, not his wife,” I counter. “Big difference.”
Dom tilts his head, studying me. “Worried? I can come with you, if you like.”
No, I love being interrogated by high society dimwits who think I’m gold-digging my way into their precious little club.
“I’ll handle it,” I say instead.
“Wear the navy Armani,” he suggests. “You look powerful in it.”
I hate that he notices what I wear.
I hate even more that I’m pleased he notices.
I arrive fifteen minutes early because punctuality is my security blanket.
Nichols and Franks, my assigned security detail, enter first, scanning the restaurant before nodding me forward.
I follow them inside. The Modern certainly lives up to its name. It’s all clean lines and strategic lighting that makes everyone look substantially more attractive than they actually are. Or at least, it does that to me.
While I linger in the waiting area, my detail takes a table nearby, pretending to be business associates having lunch, but their eyes never stop moving.
Bodyguards. When did this become my life?
I smile sadly. It won’t be my life for much longer.
I smooth non-existent wrinkles from my navy Armani pantsuit and straighten my shoulders. The weight of my new Cartier watch against my wrist centers me. It’s mine. Paid for with money I negotiated. A small victory.
“Tatiana?” The ma?tre d’ approaches. “Ms. Sharma is waiting for you.”
Damn. She’s early, too. Got here before me.
Power play move?
I follow the ma?tre d’ to a corner table where a striking woman in her fifties rises to greet me. She’s elegant in a simple black sheath dress, a single strand of pearls at her throat. Her dark hair is streaked with silver and pulled into a sleek chignon.
“Mrs. Rossi,” she says, extending her hand. “Thank you for joining me.”
Mrs. Rossi. God, that still sounds bizarre.
“Please, call me Tatiana,” I say, shaking her hand firmly.
“Anya, then.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve ordered champagne. I hope that’s acceptable.”
Before I can answer, a waiter appears with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“To unexpected unions,” Anya says, raising her glass after he pours.
I smile politely and take a small sip. “Unexpected indeed.”
She studies me over her glass. “I must admit, Dominic’s marriage came as quite a shock. He’s never struck me as the impulsive type.”
Except when he’s inserting sex clauses into business contracts.
“Love has a way of changing people,” I offer the rehearsed line.
“So I’ve heard.” She sets down her glass. “Tell me, how did you and Dominic meet?”
I launch into the sanitized version of events. Working for Christopher, occasional business interactions, a connection that suddenly “blossomed” during a chance Vegas encounter. Each word feels like a tiny betrayal, like I’m selling off little bits and pieces of my soul.
“And your background?” she asks. “I understand you’re from...”
“Queens,” I supply. “Yes. I worked my way through business school before joining Blackwell Innovations.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Quite a leap from Queens to Tribeca.”
The familiar twinge of inadequacy burns my stomach. I’ve worked twice as hard as most people in Dom’s circle to get half as far.
“I believe in earning my place,” I say evenly.
“Admirable.” She smiles, but it feels like a test. “And what are your thoughts on the Costa Rica project? I imagine Dominic consults you.”
Be careful. This is where they expect the trophy wife to stumble.
I take another sip of champagne, buying a second to organize my thoughts. “The Serenity Shores concept represents sustainable luxury at its finest. I’ve been reviewing the vendor contracts recently, actually.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Oh?”
For the next ten minutes, I outline key aspects of the project’s sustainability initiatives, careful to show knowledge without overstepping. I can feel her reassessing me with each detail I correctly cite.
Our salads arrive, giving me a brief reprieve.
“You’re not what I expected,” Anya says finally.
I spear a piece of arugula. “What did you expect?”
“Someone less... substantial.” She dabs her lips with her napkin. “Dominic’s... previous relationships haven’t been known for their intellectual depth.”
Was that almost a compliment?
“I appreciate your candor,” I say. “Investors should be thorough.”
She laughs, a genuine sound that transforms her face. “Indeed we should. Now, tell me about your wedding. Vegas, correct? I imagine it was rather spontaneous.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. This is dangerous territory.
“It was intimate,” I manage. “Just us, in the moment.”
“How romantic,” she murmurs. “And your family? They must have been surprised.”
The memory of my aborted wedding flashes unexpectedly, and I clearly see my parents’ faces when I told them Rylan wasn’t coming.
“They’re happy I’m happy,” I say, the words sour on my tongue.
The questions continue through the main course. Subtle probes about my intentions, my career aspirations, my understanding of what being married to Dominic Rossi truly means. By dessert, my cheeks hurt from maintaining a professional smile.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, needing a moment alone. “I’ll be right back.”
In the elegant bathroom, I lean against the marble counter and exhale slowly. The woman in the mirror looks controlled, poised. It’s exactly the image I’ve cultivated. Only the tightness around my eyes betrays the strain.
Twelve more days. Just twelve more days of this charade.
I’m reapplying my lipstick when I hear raised voices outside the bathroom.
“Ma’am, this area is temporarily—” Nichols’ voice, firm but professional.
“Don’t be ridiculous Nichols. It’s a public restroom. Now if you don’t mind moving aside, I have to pee .” A woman’s voice, cultured and dismissive.
The door swings open, and a stunning blonde strides in. She’s tall and thin, dressed in a structural silver dress that looks expensive. Her ice-blue eyes flick over me.
“I thought I recognized you from the tabloids!” she exclaims, clapping her hands. “And seeing Nichols outside only confirmed it. The mysterious Mrs. Rossi! How fascinating.”
I straighten, instantly on alert. “And you are?”
“Sofiya Rowan.” She opens her clutch, extracting a lipstick that matches her blood-red manicure. “Dominic and I have... history.”
The ex. Of course. Because this day wasn’t complicated enough.
“Ma’am, is everything all right?” Nichols calls through the door.
“I’m fine,” I call back, keeping my eyes on Sofiya.
She smirks, applying her lipstick with precision. “Dominic is certainly taking the charade seriously if he’s assigned Nichols.”
My heart skips. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “We both know what this is. Dominic doesn’t do commitment. Whatever arrangement you’ve worked out, it won’t last.”
I keep my face neutral. “I appreciate your concern for my marriage .”
She laughs. “ Marriage . That’s cute. Did he tell you about our little arrangement? Three nights a week, no questions asked?” She leans closer, her expensive perfume sharp and aggressive. “He always comes back, you know. When he’s bored of playing house. Where do you think he’s been all those late nights when you think he’s still at work?”
Don’t react. She’s baiting you.
“Fascinating,” I say, echoing her earlier tone. “If you’ll excuse me, my lunch companion is waiting.”
As I turn to leave, she catches my wrist.
“One last thing,” she purrs, leaning in so close I can smell the notes of her cloying perfume. “When he’s done with you and thrown you to the side of the road like the trash you are, I’ll be there waiting. I always am.” Her perfectly manicured nails dig slightly into my skin as she adds, “It’s just the natural order of things, darling. You’re the temporary distraction. I’m the addiction he keeps coming back to.”
My stomach lurches and I pull my arm free. “Goodbye, Sofiya.”
I walk out with my head high, but my heart is pounding.
Nichols falls into step beside me, his expression concerned. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I say tightly. “Just a bathroom chat.”
When we return to the table, I find Anya signing the check.
“I took the liberty,” she says. “I have another appointment.”
“Of course. Thank you for lunch.”
She stands, appraising me one final time. “You handled yourself well today, Tatiana. I look forward to seeing more of you.”
As she walks away, I sink back into my chair, exhaustion washing over me.
That’s when I get a call from Dom.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice sounds strained.
“Why do you ask?”
“Nichols texted me,” he says. “What did she say to you?”
I should tell him everything. Instead, I say, “Nothing important. Just marking her territory.”
He curses under his breath. “She shows up whenever I’m seeing someone new. Makes a scene, spreads rumors. I should have warned you.”
“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t. “Just another day in the exciting life of Mrs. Rossi.”
“Did she pretend she was seeing me?” he presses.
“She said something to that affect, yes.”
“Don’t believe a word of it,” he tells me.
“I don’t intend to.”
His voice softens slightly. “Okay. Good. How was Anya?”
“Thorough.” I manage a small smile. “But I think I passed inspection.”
“Good.” The relief is evident in his voice. “That’s... very good.”
When I disconnect, the weight of Sofiya’s words hangs between us.
He always comes back. When he’s bored of playing house. Where do you think he’s been all those late nights when you think he’s still at work?
It’s obviously a lie.
And this is obviously a temporary relationship.
Still, her words bother me more than they should.
Twelve more days until this is over.
The thought brings no comfort at all.