27. Tatiana
27
Tatiana
I can’t concentrate worth a damn this morning. Christopher’s talking about quarterly projections, but my mind keeps drifting back to last night with Dom.
We ended up having sex again. And it was amaza-frickin’-crazy, as always. And then there was the way he carried me to his bed. The way he looked at me when—
Focus, Tatiana. You’re at work. Stop thinking about Dom before you accidentally type “orgasm” instead of “organization” in these meeting notes.
I shake my head slightly and force myself to type faster, capturing Christopher’s points about market expansion. The fluorescent lights of the Blackwell Innovations conference room seem too bright today, making my mild headache worse.
I can’t stop replaying the past few nights in my head. They’re all essentially the same... a blur... the way Dom and I couldn’t help ourselves, falling into each other like it was inevitable.
But last night, afterward I made myself leave his bed. Forced my jellied legs to carry me back to my guest suite like a responsible adult who remembers this is all temporary. Sleeping in his arms again would’ve been dangerous... too intimate, too real. Too much like we’re actually married instead of playing parts in this elaborate charade that’s going to be over soon.
Because even though it was only supposed to be physical release... a footnote in our bizarre contract... being with him always feels like more. So much more. Especially after the bonding we experienced at the gala.
“Tatiana, could you send these revisions to the marketing team?” Christopher hands me a folder, snapping me back to reality.
“Of course,” I nod professionally, taking the documents. “I’ll have them distributed by noon.”
“Just in time to make your lunch appointment,” he comments. “With Sabrina?”
I nod distractedly.
He gives me a curious look. “Everything all right? You seem a world away.”
“Just tired,” I reply smoothly. “The gala last night ran late.”
Not to mention the after-party activities with your best friend that kept me up even later.
Christopher accepts this with a nod. I suspect he knows the truth about my arrangement with Dom, even though neither man has admitted it outright.
Well, either way, the countdown clock ticks relentlessly in my head.
Eight days left until the annulment.
And then I can return to my apartment, my normal life, and stop pretending to be Mrs. Dominic Rossi.
Yes. Eight days. Then I never have to see him again, beyond his cursory visits to Christopher’s office.
That last thought drops like a stone in my stomach.
Oh god. I’m falling for him, aren’t I?
Despite everything.
Despite the specific warnings I gave myself.
What the hell am I going to do?
I smile sadly.
Be heartbroken again.
Of course.
“You’re what?” Sabrina’s eyes widen across our lunch table at Le Bernardin, her fork freezing halfway to her mouth.
“Shhh!” I hiss, glancing around nervously. The restaurant hums with the quiet conversations of Manhattan’s elite, the gentle clink of silverware against fine china creating a pleasant white noise. My security detail, Nichols today, sits at a table near the entrance, pretending to be engrossed in his phone while actually scanning every person who walks through the door.
“Let’s go to the restroom,” I whisper, sliding my napkin onto the table.
Once inside the marble-walled sanctuary of the ladies’ room, I check under the stalls to make sure we’re alone.
“Okay, paranoid much?” Sabrina teases, leaning against the sink counter.
“Hey, the walls in these places have ears!” I retort. “You try living with paparazzi stalking your every public move. I’m starting to understand why celebrities go crazy.”
“So,” Sabrina crosses her arms, “you were saying? About developing feelings?”
I groan, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “It’s ridiculous. I know it is. This whole thing is a business arrangement that ends in eight days.”
“Eight days, huh?” She raises an eyebrow. “That’s specific. I mean, after our little phone call the day you woke up married, I suspected you’d be getting the annulment sooner rather than later. I just didn’t know you’d already finalized a date.”
“We have a countdown,” I admit. “His resort deal finalizes, then annulment papers get filed. We had it set at thirty days. We’re now on day twenty-two.”
“And yet...” she prompts.
“And yet I can’t stop thinking about him.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Not just the sex... which is phenomenal, by the way...”
“Of course it is,” she mouths.
“But everything,” I continue. “The way he gets so passionate about sustainable building materials. How he frantically sketches designs on a whiteboard like he’s some mad Einstein. Even the annoying way he leaves his stuff all over my organized workspace.”
Listen to yourself, girl. You sound like a teenager with a crush, not a grown woman with a Business Administration degree and trust issues the size of Manhattan.
Sabrina studies me with a knowing look, her dark eyes softening. “Oh, honey.”
“Don’t ‘oh honey’ me,” I warn. “This is a disaster.”
“Is it?” She picks up her designer purse, fishing out a lipstick. “Maybe it’s an opportunity.”
I snort. “For what? More heartbreak? Because that worked out so well last time.”
The memory of standing in my wedding dress, waiting for Rylan as the minutes ticked by, flashes through my mind. The whispers. The pitying glances. The best man’s apologetic face as he delivered the news that the groom wasn’t coming.
Sabrina turns to the mirror and applies her lipstick with precision. “Tatiana, not every man is Rylan. Dom freakin’ married you.”
“While high out of his mind on GHB,” I remind her. “And he’s been trying to end it ever since.”
“Has he, though?” She caps her lipstick with a decisive click. “From what you’ve told me, he’s had plenty of opportunities to be a complete asshole about this whole situation, but instead, he’s incorporated you into his work, values your opinion, and keeps having mind-blowing sex with you outside the parameters of your contract.”
Put that way, it does sound... different. I haven’t precisely told her about Clause 7b, but her latter point still stands.
“So what are you saying?” I ask, suddenly feeling vulnerable beneath the harsh bathroom lighting.
“I’m saying,” Sabrina meets my eyes in the mirror, “that if you’re developing real feelings, maybe you should reconsider the annulment.”
My heart trips in my chest. “That’s crazy.”
“Crazier than getting married in Vegas while high? Because you’ve already done that part.”
The bathroom door opens, and two elegantly dressed women walk in, ending our private conversation. We return to our table, and I spend the rest of lunch picking at my sea bass while Sabrina chatters about a new PR client she’s working with.
When I head back to work, her words echo in my head all afternoon.
Reconsider the annulment. As if it’s that simple with a man like Dominic Rossi.
I suppose I should cut her some slack. She’s not used to dealing with billionaires every day. Hell, I still don’t fully understand them myself, even though I’m accustomed to handling two of them on a daily basis.
And I probably never will completely understand them, if I’m being honest with myself.
The worst part is, under Sabrina’s suggestion lies a dangerous kernel of hope I’ve been trying desperately to squash.
Hope is what got me into that wedding dress with Rylan, and we all know how spectacularly that turned out.
When I return to the penthouse that evening, the place is eerily quiet. Dom must still be at the office, and any staff have gone home. I kick off my heels with a sigh of relief, wiggling my toes against the cool marble floors. There’s something both foreign and comforting about this space now. It’s not quite home, but it’s no longer just a gilded cage.
I change into yoga pants and a loose sweater, then head to my makeshift home office. The desk Dom had delivered for me is sleek and modern, with enough space for my laptop and the organized stacks of paperwork related to the resort project.
I’m halfway through reviewing the latest sustainability report when my phone buzzes. It’s an email from Ricardo Martinez, the primary materials supplier for the sustainable bamboo fixtures in the resort. My stomach drops as I read the message.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances, we regret to inform you that Eco-Source Materials must withdraw from our agreement...”
Unforeseen circumstances my ass. This smells fishier than the docks at low tide.
I dial Dom immediately, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try his assistant, who informs me he’s in back-to-back meetings until late tonight.
Great. Just great.
I pace the office, thinking. The supplier’s withdrawal could delay construction by weeks, potentially jeopardizing the entire timeline for the resort opening. And with only eight days until the funding closes...
This isn’t your problem, Tatiana. In eight days, none of this will matter to you.
Except it does matter. Not just because Dom’s success affects my payout, but because I’ve invested myself in this project. The sustainable resort is actually something I believe in.
I call Jake Thompson, Dom’s head of security.
“Mrs. Rossi,” he answers, his voice professional. “How can I help you?”
“Jake, what do you know about Eco-Source Materials backing out of our deal?”
A pause. “I was planning to brief Mr. Rossi on that tomorrow. How did you hear about it?”
“Ricardo emailed me directly. What happened?”
Jake’s voice lowers. “There was a fire at their main warehouse three days ago. Destroyed half their inventory. Suspicious circumstances.”
“Suspicious how?”
“CCTV footage showed Morgan Weiss on the premises the day before, allegedly consulting with a competitor.”
The name rings a bell. “Morgan Weiss... the same man formerly on the board at Hammond & Co? The one who caused so many problems for Christopher’s wife Lucy?”
“The same,” Jake confirms. “Word is he’s working as a consultant now, but Mr. Blackwell Senior might be bankrolling him under the table.”
Not surprising, consider Christopher’s father has a grudge list longer than a giraffe’s neck. The apple fell far from the tree with Christopher.
“Where’s Dom now?” I ask.
“Meeting with investors about the final funding round. He’s dealing with some... family issues as well.”
Probably Nico. The brother who claimed Dom stole his resort concept.
I make a decision. “Jake, I need a car and a security detail in thirty minutes.”
“May I ask where you’re going, Mrs. Rossi?”
“To save the resort project.”
Two hours and one frantic research session later, I’m sitting across from Elena Valdez, the founder of GreenFrame Builders, a smaller but promising sustainable materials company based in Brooklyn. My personal security detail, Nichols and Franks this time, wait discreetly near the entrance to her industrial-chic office space.
The giant windows behind her offer a view of the Manhattan skyline across the water. The lights are starting to twinkle on as dusk settles over the city.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me on such short notice,” I tell her, smoothing my skirt. “And for staying late for me.”
“For someone of your reputation, we’re happy to stay open late,” Elena replies.
My reputation. Right. I suppress a snort. More like Dom’s bank account and last name that I’m temporarily borrowing.
I dive into my presentation.
Afterward, Elena studies the numbers I’ve presented with careful attention. Her glasses slide slightly down her nose as she squints at my projections, and I resist the urge to fidget. Instead, I maintain what I hope is a confident, professional expression. The same one I’ve perfected over years of sitting in on Christopher’s meetings.
“This is an aggressive timeline,” she says finally, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“But doable,” I counter. “Your production capacity exceeds your current contracts by almost forty percent. I’ve reviewed your last three quarterly reports.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Already? I thought you only found out about us today.”
I smile. “I’m quick. And thorough.”
“Clearly.” She leans back in her chair. “Why isn’t Dominic Rossi here himself?”
“Mr. Rossi is handling final investment negotiations. I’ve been authorized to solve the supply chain issue.” The lie rolls off my tongue smoothly.
Authorized by myself, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“The bamboo quality you’re requesting is premium grade,” Elena continues. “We’d need to pull resources from other projects.”
“Which is why we’re prepared to offer a twenty percent premium over our original contract with Eco-Source,” I say confidently, even though I have no actual authority to make this offer. “Plus, the publicity of being associated with Serenity Shores would position GreenFrame as a leader in luxury sustainable development.”
Elena’s eyes narrow. “Twenty-five percent and prominent placement in all marketing materials.”
“Twenty-two percent and placement in marketing materials, subject to final approval from our team.”
We stare at each other across the reclaimed wood table.
“Deal,” she says finally, extending her hand.
I shake it, relief flooding through me. “I’ll have the contracts drafted tomorrow.”
As we work out the preliminary details, my phone buzzes. Dom. I send it to voicemail, focusing on finalizing the agreement with Elena.
By the time I leave GreenFrame’s offices, it’s past nine, and my phone shows six missed calls from Dom. I take a deep breath and call him back from the car.
“You went to GreenFrame without telling me?” he says instead of hello, his voice an odd mixture of irritation and something else I can’t quite place.
Of course Jake tattled. What did you expect, Tatiana? That’s literally his job.
“Yes,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Someone had to do something about the supplier crisis before we lost weeks of construction time. You were busy.”
“No, I was handling it,” he says, that edge still in his voice. “You had no authority to negotiate terms on behalf of Rossi Developments.”
“Well, your ‘handling it’ approach wasn’t going to save us from losing our place in the production queue,” I counter, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. “Every day we waited was another day someone else could swoop in and take our spot.”
The car glides through the nighttime streets of Manhattan, the lights of the city reflecting off the tinted windows. Nichols sits silently in the front passenger seat, politely pretending not to hear me challenging a billionaire CEO about his business decisions.
Poor guy. His NDA must be thicker than the Manhattan phone book.
“What exactly did you promise them?” Dom asks after a beat of silence.
“Twenty-two percent above the Eco-Source rate,” I reply, bracing for the explosion.
“Twenty-two percent?” Now he definitely sounds annoyed. “Tatiana, that’s—”
“The difference between meeting our construction deadline and watching the entire project derail,” I finish for him. “I ran the numbers, Dom. Even with the premium, we’re still within budget if we adjust the landscaping allowance by eight percent.”
Or you could just reach into your couch cushions and find the difference, Mr. Billionaire. Pretty sure you’ve got that much in loose change.
There’s a long pause, and I imagine him running his hand through his hair the way he does when he’s processing something unexpected.
“GreenFrame,” he says finally, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful. “Elena Valdez’s company?”
“Yes.”
“Their bamboo is certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.”
I relax slightly against the leather seat. “I know. That’s why I chose them.”
“And Elena agreed to our timeline?”
“She did. Their lead time is actually shorter than Ricardo’s was. We might even be able to move up the eastern wing completion by two weeks.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I’ll review the terms tomorrow.” His voice sounds different now... not angry, not exactly impressed, but something else I can’t quite identify. Almost like... respect? He’s probably still pissed I skirted his authority though. “Are you on your way home now?”
Home. Not “the penthouse.” The casual word choice makes my chest tighten.
“Yes. About fifteen minutes out.”
“Good. We’ll discuss this further when you get here.”
The call ends, and I lean back against the seat, suddenly exhausted but strangely exhilarated. I just negotiated a major supply contract for a billion-dollar resort project, completely on my own initiative. And Dom didn’t immediately tear it to shreds.
Not bad for a girl who was left at the altar.
I smile to myself, watching the city lights blur past the window. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like an accessory or a trophy or a contractual obligation. I feel like a partner. A valuable one.
And as the car pulls up to Dom’s building, I realize with a jolt of clarity that what I felt tonight... you know, that whole rush of solving a problem, of acting decisively, of being acknowledged for my competence rather than as arm candy... that’s what I want from my life. From my career.
Maybe even from my relationships.
Eight days. Damn.