26. Dominic
26
Dominic
T he morning after is awkward as fuck. We both get ready silently, maneuvering around each other in the penthouse like two celestial bodies with carefully calculated orbits designed to prevent collision.
I catch myself staring at her when she isn’t looking, remembering the way she felt beneath me last night, the way she called my name.
Just physical release, I remind myself. An extension of the clause. Nothing more.
But the lie feels hollow now, even to me.
“We have the Blackwell Innovations gala tonight,” I say as she pours herself coffee in the kitchen. “Seven o’clock.”
Tatiana nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “I know. I already have a dress.”
“Of course you do.” I almost smile. She’s always prepared.
“I used to work for Christopher, remember?” She takes a sip of her coffee. “I know his events inside and out.”
I nod, wishing I could think of something to say that doesn’t sound stilted and formal. But what is there to say after last night? After I told her about Nico? After I immediately retreated back to the safety of our “business arrangement” the moment vulnerability threatened to crack me open.
“Black tie,” I say instead.
“Dom.” She finally looks at me, exasperation clear in her eyes. “I know the dress code.”
“Right.” I finish my own coffee in one large gulp, needing to escape the tension that hangs between us like a thundercloud. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I spend the day at the office, buried in work, analyzing the Costa Rica deal, running numbers that Tatiana already checked, just to keep my mind occupied. When Jake calls to remind me it’s time to get ready for the gala, I almost tell him to cancel, to make some excuse. But I can’t. Not for this. Christopher is not just a business associate but one of my oldest friends.
And seeing him with Lucy, another successful couple born from unusual circumstances, feels like rubbing salt in a wound I didn’t even know I had.
By the time we arrive at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where the gala is being held, the familiar heaviness of Tatiana’s presence beside me has become almost comforting. She wears a deep blue dress that hugs every curve, her hair swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Jake and Nichols follow at a discreet distance, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd.
We pose for the obligatory photos, my hand resting on the small of Tatiana’s back, her body angled toward mine in practiced harmony. We’re well-practiced at this dance of feigned intimacy by now.
But honestly, after last night, I’m not even sure it’s feigned anymore.
Fucking confusing.
“They look happy,” Tatiana murmurs once we’re inside, nodding toward Christopher and Lucy, who stand laughing together near a display of technological innovations.
I follow her gaze. Christopher has his arm wrapped around Lucy’s waist, and she leans into him, whispering something that makes him throw his head back in genuine laughter. The connection between them is palpable, electric.
“They do,” I agree.
For a moment, Tatiana and I exchange a look, wordless but heavy with meaning. Here we are, playing at marriage, while they’ve found the real thing. The irony isn’t lost on either of us.
“Should we go say hello?” Tatiana asks.
“Probably.” I offer her my arm, which she takes with a practiced smile.
Christopher spots us approaching and his face lights up. “Dom. Tatiana. Great to see you both.”
“Congratulations on the new launch,” I say, shaking his hand. “The property exploration app looks promising.”
“Thanks.” Christopher beams. “Lucy was instrumental in its development.”
Lucy smiles, her hand still resting on Christopher’s arm. “We’re super excited about it. We’re hoping to revolutionize how potential buyers experience properties before visiting in person.”
“That’s impressive,” Tatiana says, and I can hear the genuine admiration in her voice.
“How are you two doing?” Lucy asks. “Still in the newlywed phase?”
I feel Tatiana tense slightly beside me.
“Something like that,” I say smoothly. “Though work keeps us busy.”
“The resort project?” Christopher asks.
“Yes. One week until funding closes.” I try to sound enthusiastic rather than anxious, even though I’m well aware he knows our secret.
“Tatiana’s been helping,” Christopher notes, his eyes assessing. “I hope you’re not working her too hard on top of her PA duties.”
“She’s invaluable,” I say truthfully. “I don’t know how I managed before.”
Tatiana glances at me, surprised by the sincerity in my voice. I hadn’t meant to let that slip.
“Well,” Lucy says with a knowing smile, “sometimes the right partnership comes along when you least expect it.”
Christopher nods. “Or in the most unexpected way.”
There’s a shared understanding in their words, a reference to their own unorthodox beginnings. But their relationship evolved into something real and lasting, while Tatiana and I... have nine days left before we file for annulment.
“Excuse me,” a familiar, annoying voice cuts through the conversation. “I simply must say hello to the happy couple.”
I turn to find Sofiya Rowan standing there, looking like an ice queen in white, her platinum bob gleaming under the gallery lights. My ex with perfect timing, as always.
She eyes Tatiana with the kind of assessing gaze that can make even confident women feel insecure.
“Still together, I see,” Sofiya mocks.
I feel protective anger rise in my chest. “Tatiana, you remember Sofiya. She occasionally makes appearances at events where she isn’t welcome.”
Sofiya’s smile tightens. “Such charm, Dominic. No wonder this one fell for you, too.”
“Actually,” Tatiana says with a sweet smile that immediately puts me on alert, “I didn’t fall for his charm. I fell for his business acumen and his commitment to sustainable development. The incredible sex was just a bonus.”
Lucy coughs to hide her laugh while Christopher’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline.
Sofiya’s face flushes an unflattering pink. “Well. How refreshingly... crude.”
“Almost as crude as that Gautreau knockoff you’re wearing,” Tatiana adds, still smiling pleasantly. “I’m sure it looked better on the mannequin.”
I choke on my champagne, caught between shock and amusement. Sofiya looks like she’s been slapped.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” Sofiya says stiffly, “I see someone important I need to speak with.”
As she stalks away, I turn to Tatiana with newfound respect. “That was... unexpected.”
She shrugs, but I can see the satisfaction in her eyes. “I worked for Christopher for two years. I’ve dealt with women like her before.”
Christopher laughs. “Tatiana has always been formidable when provoked.”
“I’m learning that,” I say, unable to suppress a smile.
We chat for a few more minutes before Christopher and Lucy are called away to greet other guests. A waiter passes, and we take the proffered champagne glasses.
“Thank you for handling Sofiya,” I say quietly. “She can be... persistent.”
“I noticed.” Tatiana sips her champagne. “Does she show up at all your events?”
“Only the ones where she thinks she can cause maximum disruption.” I guide Tatiana toward a quieter corner of the gallery. “She didn’t take our breakup well.”
“Shocking,” Tatiana says dryly.
I laugh, surprised by how easy it feels despite everything. “The dress comment was inspired.”
“It really is a knockoff,” Tatiana says with a small smile. “I’ve cataloged enough designer pieces for Lucy Hammond to know the difference.”
I arch an eyebrow, and tease: “So Christopher has his corporate executive assistant cataloging his wife’s personal wardrobe? Tsk. Tsk. I should report him to his own board for misappropriation of funds.”
“If you saw how well those dresses perform at investor dinners, you’d classify them as business expenses, too,” Tatiana replies with a knowing smile. “The woman practically deserves her own line item in the quarterly budget.”
I chuckle. “Touché.”
As we stand there, I notice a group of women nearby, their eyes darting toward us as they whisper behind their hands. The words “Vegas” and “sudden marriage” drift to my ears.
“Looks like we’re the evening’s entertainment,” I murmur.
Tatiana follows my gaze and sighs.
“Does it bother you?” I ask suddenly. “The scrutiny?”
She considers this, her eyes thoughtful. “Not as much as I thought it would. Though I could do without your ex-girlfriend’s commentary.”
“She’s not worth your attention.”
“No,” Tatiana agrees. “She isn’t.”
There’s something about the quiet confidence in her voice that makes my chest tighten. This woman beside me, who stood her ground against Sofiya without batting an eye, who expertly navigates these social waters while maintaining her dignity, who has seen me at my most vulnerable, at my best, and at my worst... she deserves better than this temporary arrangement.
Better than me.
We stop near one of the elaborate ice sculptures, our reflections distorted in its crystalline surface. Here the bass-heavy music pulses loudly around us, creating a strange bubble of intimacy within the crowded gala. We’re standing well away from any listeners, and I signal Jake, who’s standing vigilantly nearby, to make sure no one disturbs us.
As we stand there, I notice her gaze shift subtly to a server passing with a tray of delicate pastries, her eyes following with unexpected longing.
“You haven’t eaten anything all night again, haven’t you?” I ask, suddenly realizing.
She gives me a slightly surprised look. “Events like these aren’t for eating. They’re for being seen and making connections.”
“Another one of those rules you’ve cataloged during your years with Christopher?”
“Indeed,” she confirms with mock seriousness. “Right after ‘never tell the CEO his tie is crooked’ and before ‘always have breath mints after the garlic canapés.’”
I signal to the server, who brings the tray over. “Rules are meant to be broken. Especially the silly ones.”
Tatiana hesitates before taking the smallest pastry. “Bold words from a man whose entire resort project hinges on following very precise regulatory guidelines.”
“That’s different,” I argue, selecting a pastry for myself. “Those rules serve a purpose.”
“And social rules don’t?” She raises an eyebrow, delicately taking a bite. “The currency at these events isn’t money, Dom. It’s perception.”
“Is that why you’re so good at this?” I gesture vaguely to the crowd. “You see the rules of the game clearly?”
“I see patterns,” she says simply. “In people, in numbers, in behavior. It’s just data.”
“You make human interaction sound so clinical.”
She lowers her voice, and I barely hear her above the music. “Says the man who put sex into a contract clause.”
I laugh at that. “Touché. Again.”
She sets aside her pastry. It’s only half eaten. “Besides, my stomach can’t take a meal before or during these events. Nerves, you know.”
“ Nerves? ” I’m taken aback. “I’ve always thought you had nerves of steel .”
“I’m a good actor,” she admits. “Dealing with people... has never been one of my strong suites. I prefer numbers. Spreadsheets.”
I study her in a newfound light. She’s nervous. She’s actually gets nervous at events like this. I would have never thought...
Which makes me wonder... she says she’s a good actor. What else is she pretending? What else is she hiding?
Could she feel something for me?
No. I don’t dare hope.
Like she said, she’s a good actor. She’s pretending to be my wife.
And like I said, she deserves better than me. Someone who can give her the attention she deserves. Someone who isn’t obsessed with his business... obsessed with signing billion dollar deals.
“When this is over,” she continues. “I’m looking forward to hiding away behind my desk again, with galas like this restricted to a once or twice a year thing.”
I slump slightly.
See? This is why it’s a fucking bad idea to hope.
“Yes, when it’s over,” I agree.
“Don’t sound so devastated,” she says, her tone teasing but with an undercurrent I can’t quite identify. She lowers her voice again so I can barely hear it above the music. “Soon you’ll be free to attend these events alone again, or with whatever supermodel catches your fancy.”
I lean close and whisper in response: “Is that what you think? That I’ll just move on to the next woman?”
“Won’t you?” She whispers back. Her eyes search mine, suddenly serious. “Isn’t that your pattern?”
Patterns. She sees patterns in people.
The question hits uncomfortably close to home. I take a sip of champagne to buy time, wondering why I care what she thinks of me.
“I don’t have a pattern,” I lie.
“Everyone has patterns, Dom.” She glances away, watching the crowd, then whispers: “Mine is apparently marrying billionaires in Vegas when I’m high.”
I laugh despite myself. “Plural? How many other billionaires have you married?”
“Just the one. So far.” She smiles, and fuck, something inside me shifts dangerously.
This is getting too comfortable, too easy. The way her eyes catch the light, the slight tilt of her head when she’s being clever... I’m noticing too many details, cataloging them like they matter, like she matters beyond our arrangement.
I’ve already told myself not to have hope.
So why am I doing this to myself?
“What will you do?” I find myself asking. “After?”
She looks surprised by the question. “Go back to my apartment of course. My job with Christopher. My life.”
“Will it feel the same?”
Her expression softens slightly. “Nothing ever feels the same after change, does it? But that’s not necessarily bad.”
I nod, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. How natural it feels to share this space with her.
How much I’m going to miss this.
Miss her .
Fuck.
Stop it.
Nine days. I almost can’t believe it. That’s all the time we have left, all we ever agreed to. Where did it go? How did it pass so fast?
Getting attached now would be monumentally stupid. I don’t do commitment. I don’t do real relationships. They end in disappointment and pain, in someone getting hurt or abandoned.
Like Nico.
Like everyone I’ve ever cared about.
“Dom?” Tatiana touches my arm lightly. “You went somewhere else just now.”
“Sorry. Just thinking about next steps for the resort.” Another lie.
She nods, not quite believing me but letting it slide. “Speaking of next steps, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the sustainability metrics for the eastern section. Your current projections seem optimistic.”
And just like that, we’re back on safe ground.
Business.
Numbers.
Concrete things I understand, not this nebulous feeling expanding in my chest every time she looks at me.
“Optimistic but achievable,” I counter, grateful for the shift. “The solar array will outperform industry standards if we implement the new panel configuration.”
“ If ,” she emphasizes. “That’s a pretty significant if.”
“I like to think of it as calculated confidence.”
“So that’s what you call it.” She laughs. “In my spreadsheets, we call those assumptions.”
“Your spreadsheets lack vision.”
“Your vision lacks spreadsheets.”
We’re both smiling now, locked in this ridiculous debate that somehow feels more intimate than sex. This is the danger zone... the easy rapport, the mental connection that keeps deepening despite my best efforts to keep things surface-level.
I need to stop this, stop wondering what my life will be like after we part ways, stop imagining what it would be like if we didn’t.
Nine days. Nine days and then we go back to being strangers who once shared a life, a contract, and apparently, a mutual appreciation for sustainable energy metrics.
The thought shouldn’t hurt this much.
But it does.