21. Dominic
21
Dominic
I stare at my phone screen, blood pounding in my temples. Some fucking gossip Instagram called “Vegas Insider” has just published another photo from our wedding weekend. Not from the chapel or even from the license bureau, but from earlier at the Liquid Pool Lounge.
The photo is damning in its simplicity. Tatiana and her friends clearly on one side of the pool. Me and my crew on the opposite end. Zero interaction.
The caption reads: “EXCLUSIVE: Rossi Wedding Origin Story Falls Apart? Sources claim billionaire’s ‘whirlwind romance’ was actually a first-time meeting at Vegas pool party.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing back from my desk.
Camilla has already texted me three times about it. The investors are nervous. Again. Just when I was so close to signing the deal.
I grab my phone and head to the living room where Tatiana is working through resort vendor contracts. She’s curled up on the sofa, her own laptop balanced on her knees, looking frustratingly calm.
“We have a problem,” I announce, thrusting my phone toward her.
She looks up, takes the phone, and scrolls through the Instagram article without changing her expression.
“Hmm,” she says, handing it back. “Unfortunate timing.”
“Unfortunate timing?” I repeat, incredulous. “This directly contradicts our entire story. The story we’ve been selling to everyone for over two weeks now.”
Tatiana closes her laptop and sets it aside. “It’s one blurry photo on a second-rate gossip account, Dom.”
“Which has already been picked up by three major outlets and is trending on X.” I run a hand through my hair. “I already called Camilla. We need to issue a statement immediately and have our legal team reach out to the account.”
“And say what exactly?” Tatiana stands, crossing her arms. “That they need to take down a factual photo?”
“We say it’s an invasion of privacy. We threaten legal action for using unauthorized photos in a commercial context.”
“Which will only make it look like we’re hiding something.” She shakes her head. “The smarter move is to ignore it. Let it fade naturally.”
I stare at her. “Ignore it? That’s your professional advice? To just ignore a direct threat to the narrative we’ve carefully constructed?”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Because aggressive reactions to minor gossip create bigger stories than the original gossip itself. It will amplify the story, and imply that it’s true.”
I pace across the living room, unable to stay still. “But this isn’t minor gossip. This is the foundation of our entire fucking story cracking apart two weeks before the funding closes.”
“The foundation of our story is that we got married in Vegas,” she counters. “Which is true. Whether we knew each other for years or hours doesn’t actually matter to the investors. What matters is stability now.”
“Don’t tell me what matters to my investors,” I snap. “I’ve been managing these relationships for decades.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Decades? You’re thirty-five, Dom.”
“You know what I mean.” I stop pacing and face her directly. “We need to contain this. Aggressively. Before it spreads further.”
“And I’m telling you that an aggressive response will only amplify it.” She stands up and steps closer, her voice rising slightly. “You’re so used to bulldozing through problems that you can’t see when finesse is the better approach.”
“Finesse?” I laugh humorlessly. “Is that what you call doing nothing?”
“It’s called strategic patience. Something you apparently know nothing about.”
I feel my temper flaring. “Don’t talk down to me in my own home, Tatiana.”
“Then don’t dismiss my professional opinion when you know I’m right.” She’s standing her ground, chin lifted in defiance.
“Your opinion isn’t based on experience with this level of scrutiny,” I counter. “This isn’t some minor corporate hiccup at Christopher’s company. This is my fucking life. My reputation. My deal that’s hanging in the balance.”
“ Our deal,” she corrects sharply. “ Our reputation. Our supposed life together that we’re trying to sell.”
“For two more weeks,” I remind her, the words bitter on my tongue.
Something flashes in her eyes. “Yes. Just two more weeks of this farce. Then you can go back to your aggressive damage control and I can go back to my apartment in Queens.”
The mention of her apartment sends an unexpected surge of possessiveness through me. The image of her small, personal space filled with books and photos flickers in my mind.
“This isn’t a farce,” I say, stepping closer without thinking. “Not entirely.”
Her gaze falters. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” My voice drops lower, and my walls start crumbling. “Whatever this is between us. It’s not just business anymore. It hasn’t been since Day 14.”
“Don’t,” she warns, but doesn’t step back.
We’re standing too close now. I can smell her perfume, see the slight flush rising on her cheeks. The anger between us shifts, morphing into something equally volatile but infinitely more dangerous.
“That night,” I say, my voice rough. “You can’t tell me that was just fulfilling a clause.”
“It was a mistake.” But her voice lacks conviction.
“Was it?” I challenge. “Because it didn’t feel like a mistake when you were screaming my name.”
Her pupils dilate. “That was just physical.”
“Bullshit.” I’m close enough now to see her pulse racing at the base of her throat. “There’s something here. Something real. You feel it too.”
“What I feel ,” she says shakily, “is that I’m trapped in an impossible situation with a man who thinks he can control everything and everyone around him.”
“I don’t want to control you,” I growl. “I want to understand what the fuck is happening between us.”
“ Nothing is happening,” she insists, but her eyes drop to my mouth. “Nothing can happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re going to annul this marriage in two weeks,” she reminds me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because this was never supposed to be real.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. One second we’re arguing and the next my mouth is on hers, hot and demanding. She gasps against my lips, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer even as she makes a sound of protest.
The kiss is nothing like I expected. It’s angry and desperate and achingly real. She arches into me and her mouth opens under mine, her tongue meeting mine with equal fervor. I back her against the nearest wall and she gasps again. I tangle one hand in her hair while the other grips her hip, anchoring her against me.
She tastes like coffee and possibility and complications I never wanted.
I couldn’t stop kissing her if my life depended on it.
Her hands slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers threading through my hair as she kisses me back with an intensity that matches my own.
This isn’t business.
This isn’t an arrangement.
This is pure, unfiltered need.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes wide with shock that probably mirrors my own.
“Fuck,” I mutter, stepping back. My heart hammers against my ribs. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
What just happened? What the hell am I doing?
“Dom,” she starts, her voice unsteady.
“I have a meeting,” I lie, desperate for escape, struggling to rebuild the walls. “I need to go.”
“Now?” Disbelief colors her tone. “On a Sunday? We need to talk about this. You can’t just kiss me and—”
“Later,” I promise, already backing toward the door. “We’ll figure this out later.”
I grab my jacket and keys, avoiding her eyes. “Don’t wait up.”
I’m in the elevator before I allow myself to breathe. I lean against the wall, closing my eyes.
“Shit,” I whisper to the empty elevator.
The kiss replays in my mind on an endless loop. Fuck. The heat of her mouth. The way she arched into me like she couldn’t get enough. The little sound she made when I pushed her against the wall.
I grip the elevator railing, trying to steady myself. I’m hard as steel just thinking about it. I was on the verge of carrying her straight to my bedroom, contract be damned.
But that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?
Less than two fucking weeks left in our agreement. Then the annulment. The end.
That’s the plan I created. The deal I designed. The solution I forced on both of us.
Clean.
Simple.
Temporary.
No messy emotions. No complications. Just business.
If I had stayed in that penthouse a moment longer, I would’ve torn that plan to shreds with my bare hands. Would’ve backed her against another wall and told her to forget the whole goddamn agreement.
And a part of me... a part that’s getting harder to ignore... wants to do exactly that. Rip up the contract. Burn the annulment papers. Tell the investors to go fuck themselves. Like literally, go fuck themselves in the ass.
Because walking away from Tatiana Cole in less two weeks is starting to feel like the kind of mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
The elevator doors slide open, and I stride through the lobby like a man running from a fire.