29. Tatiana
29
Tatiana
S unday mornings used to be sacred.
A whole glorious day stretched out before me with nothing to do but sip coffee in my pajamas and maybe catch up on whatever romance novel everyone won’t shut up about. The kind of peaceful solitude that used to feel like heaven after a packed work week.
But today, I voluntarily left that sanctity behind to brunch with Jess and Sabrina at some ridiculously trendy spot in SoHo where the avocado toast is cooked in duck fat. Sounds disgusting, I know. But it tastes divine.
And honestly, I’m actually grateful for the distraction. It’s an excuse to be somewhere else other than near Dom.
Speaking of which, I’m still thinking about what he did to me last night in bed...
Don’t go there, Tatiana! This is exactly why you need distance. Because apparently multiple orgasms turn your brain to mush.
I went to work yesterday as well, a Saturday of all days, again mostly to get away. Dom’s consulting work has wound down to a degree, so that left only Christopher’s office. When I got there, it wasn’t as if I got a lot done, though. I mostly rearranged the same spreadsheet fifteen different ways while thinking about Dom’s hands.
Anyway, my point is, I’m trying my hardest not to get further attached to Dom. To make this last phase of our agreement just physical. A transaction with benefits. Five more days of fantastic sex and then a clean break.
I’m not sure it’s working.
At all.
“So,” Jess says, examining her mimosa like it contains the secrets of the universe, “how’s married life treating you? Any plans for a proper honeymoon after all this PR madness dies down?”
I nearly choke on my overpriced coffee. If she only knew there’s exactly five days left on our countdown clock.
I exchange a conspiratorial glance with Sabrina. “We’re... taking things one day at a time,” I manage, which might be the understatement of the century.
One day at a time until our legally binding agreement expires and we go our separate ways. Talk about modern romance.
“I saw that glance,” Jess says, a mischievous glint in her eye. She looks at Sabrina. “What are you two keeping from me?”
“Nothing!” I say.
Nichols and Franks sit at a nearby table, pretending to be engrossed in their phones while actually scanning everyone who walks through the door. I’ve gotten used to their presence, which is probably a sign that my life has taken a decidedly weird turn.
Jess shrugs. “Whatever. Your husband is so hot it should be illegal.” She stirs her drink with unnecessary vigor. “Like, does he just smolder at you across the breakfast table? Does he brood sexily while brushing his teeth?”
“Jess!” Sabrina intervenes, though I catch her subtle glance of curiosity.
“What? I’m living vicariously through my friend who somehow bagged New York’s most eligible bachelor without telling any of us she was even dating him.”
I stare into my coffee cup, suddenly finding the swirl of cream fascinating. There’s so much I could say: how Dom’s hands feel against my skin, how the weight of him pressing me into the mattress makes me forget everything else, how even though I leave his bed every night, part of me wants so desperately to stay.
But those things feel too raw, too real to share over Instagram-worthy brunch plates.
“It’s complicated,” I say finally.
Jess rolls her eyes. “God, you’re no fun. Fine, keep your billionaire sex secrets.”
“Trust me, if I had any good secrets, you two would be the first to know,” I lie smoothly, stabbing a piece of avocado toast with unnecessary force. “Besides, we’re still figuring things out ourselves.”
Figuring out how to pretend we were never married once our thirty-day countdown hits zero, that is.
Sabrina gives me that look, the one that says she can practically read the thoughts I’m desperately trying to keep behind my carefully constructed wall of nonchalance. That woman is too perceptive for her own good.
“Well, when you figure it out, I expect details,” Jess says, flagging down the waiter for another mimosa. “Specifically: is the size of his... empire... proportional to his net worth?”
“Jess!” Sabrina and I exclaim in unison, though I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
“What? It’s a legitimate question.”
I glance over at Nichols and Franks, who are pretending very hard not to hear our conversation. Poor guys. Their security training probably didn’t include protocols for filtering out graphic sex euphemisms at boozy brunches.
“Change of subject,” I announce firmly, though my cheeks are burning. “Sabrina, how’s that new client of yours? The one with the tequila brand?”
And mercifully, we move on to safer topics, though Jess keeps shooting me suggestive looks whenever I take a sip of my drink.
And so, for a few hours, surrounded by my friends, I almost forget about the ticking clock.
Almost.
When I return to the penthouse just after 1 PM, the place is eerily quiet. Usually Dom works from his home office on Sundays, the faint sound of his voice on business calls a constant background hum.
Today, silence.
I kick off my heels with a sigh of relief, wiggling my toes against the cool marble floors. Maybe he went out. Or to the office today.
Good, that means I can have the place to myself for a while.
I’m halfway to the guest suite when I hear it. A rough, hacking cough coming from the living room.
Please don’t be a burglar. Although honestly, what kind of burglar announces their presence with tuberculosis?
And besides, Dom’s security team would’ve already had any intruders subdued and sprawled spread-eagle on the floor.
Maybe it’s staff? Antoine?
I peek around the corner to find Dom draped across the white leather sofa, his normally immaculate appearance completely disheveled. His hair stands up in odd directions, his face is flushed, and he’s surrounded by a fortress of documents and his laptop despite looking like death warmed over.
“You’re sick,” I state the obvious, hovering in the doorway.
He glances up, his eyes glassy with fever. “Just busy. Resort plans won’t review themselves.”
Another coughing fit overtakes him, and he clutches his chest like it physically pains him. When it subsides, he tries to straighten, but I can see the effort it takes.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Walk away, Tatiana. He doesn’t want you here anyway. This is not your problem. In five days, you’ll never have to see this stubborn man again.
But instead of listening to that voice of self-preservation, I find myself moving toward him. I press the back of my hand against his forehead before he can protest.
“Jesus, Dom. You’re burning up.”
“It’s nothing.” He swats my hand away weakly. “Just need to finish these specs for the—”
“For the eastern wing. I know. But they’ll still be there after you’ve rested.” I close his laptop firmly and set it on the coffee table.
“What are you doing?” He scowls, though the effect is somewhat diminished by how absolutely wrecked he looks.
“Taking care of you, apparently.” I gather the scattered papers into a neat stack. “When’s the last time you had medicine? Or water, for that matter?”
“Don’t need it.”
“Right, because dehydration really enhances cognitive function.”
I march to the kitchen and fill a glass with water, then raid the medicine cabinet. I find some Tylenol and bring everything back to the living room. Dom has slouched further into the couch, his eyes closed, his breathing labored.
He looks... vulnerable. Not at all like the commanding billionaire who controls every room he enters.
It’s unnerving to see him this way.
“Here.” I nudge his shoulder. “Take these.”
His eyes flutter open, confusion clouding them momentarily before he focuses on me. “You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?”
Running far away from this situation that’s getting messier by the minute, probably.
He takes the pills and water without further argument, which tells me just how terrible he must be feeling. When he drains the glass, I take it back to the kitchen for a refill.
“You don’t have to do this,” he calls after me, voice hoarse.
“I know.”
And that’s the thing. I really don’t have to. Our agreement doesn’t cover nursing duties. But the thought of leaving him alone like this, burning with fever and too stubborn to admit he needs help, doesn’t sit right with me. I tell myself anyone in my position would do it. That I’m just being a good Samaritan.
But am I really?
I return with more water and a damp washcloth. He eyes the cloth suspiciously.
“For your forehead,” I explain. “It’ll help with the fever.”
“Had a nanny once who did that,” he mumbles as I place the cool cloth on his brow. “When Nico and I were sick as kids.”
The casual mention of his childhood catches me off guard. Dom rarely talks about his past.
“Did it help?” I ask, perching on the edge of the coffee table.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Don’t remember. But she made this horrible Italian soup that tasted like punishment.”
I laugh softly. “Well, lucky for you, I draw the line at cooking. But I can order soup from that place you like on Lexington. It’s not Italian, but...”
His eyes find mine, something unreadable in their depths. “Why are you doing this?”
The question hangs between us, deceptively simple yet loaded with implications.
Because I’m a sucker for punishment? Because I secretly enjoy playing Florence Nightingale to impossible men? Because seeing you vulnerable makes you seem almost human? And attainable?
“I’d do the same for anyone,” I say finally.
It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. The whole truth is too complicated, too close to feelings I’m not ready to acknowledge.
Dom seems to accept this answer, or perhaps he’s simply too exhausted to press further. His eyes drift shut again.
“Rest,” I tell him firmly. “I’ll wake you when the soup arrives.”
I stand to leave, but his hand catches my wrist, surprisingly warm against my skin.
“Stay,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “Just... for a minute. Please?”
The way he says that last word... so vulnerable, pleading, makes my eyes get all blurry. I quickly blink until I can see again.
He needs me. Really needs me.
His grip is loose enough that I could easily pull away. I should pull away.
Instead, I sink back down onto the edge of the coffee table. His fingers still lightly encircle my wrist.
“Okay,” I whisper.
We sit in silence broken only by the soft sound of his breathing, gradually evening out as he drifts toward sleep. I study his face, so rarely unguarded like this. The dark sweep of his lashes, the stubble shadowing his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that persists even in rest.
Five days. Then he’ll be out of my life.
Sitting here in the quiet of the penthouse, watching over him, I’m forced to confront the uncomfortable truth. I told Sabrina I was developing feelings for him. It’s not a lie. And a part of me, a growing part, doesn’t want this to end.
I carefully extract my wrist from his now-slack grip and stand.
His laptop catches my eye, open to a spreadsheet filled with resort specifications. I’d specifically closed that laptop. He must have opened it when I left the room to get his Tylenol.
Stubborn man.
In the corner of the screen, I notice a small calendar widget.
Today’s date is circled in red, with a simple notation: “Day 25.”
Our countdown.
Of course he’s keeping track too.
I turn away, throat suddenly tight, and go to order his soup. I set the delivery time to five thirty, so that he has a chance to rest.
The hours pass, and I settle into a strange routine of checking his fever, bringing fresh water, and making sure he takes more medicine when needed. I answer emails from my laptop, working quietly nearby in case he needs anything.
When the soup finally arrives, I wake him gently.
“Hey.” I touch his shoulder. “Food’s here.”
Dom blinks awake, his gaze unfocused for a moment before it settles on me. He looks marginally better. Still feverish, but more present.
“What time is it?” he rasps.
“Almost six.” I help him sit up, noticing how he winces at the movement. “You’ve been out for a while.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Should be working.”
“The world won’t end if Dominic Rossi takes one day off.” I set down the soup container and some crackers. “Here. Eat something.”
He eyes the food warily, but accepts. “Did you eat?”
The question surprises me. “I’ll grab something later.”
Dom shakes his head stubbornly. “You always forget to eat. Sit. Eat with me.”
“Fine.” I retrieve a cup and some crackers from the kitchen, pour myself some of his soup, and settle into an armchair across from him.
We munch in companionable silence for a while. Dom manages about half his soup before setting the spoon down. Color has returned to his face, but exhaustion still hangs heavy in his movements.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly, his voice quiet but clear. “For... this.”
The simple gratitude catches me off guard. It’s perhaps the most straightforward, genuine thing he’s ever said to me.
“You’re welcome.” I pause, then add lightly, “Though I’m pretty sure taking care of your feverish self wasn’t in our agreement.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Consider it a goodwill amendment.”
“Is that what the lawyers are calling it these days?”
His smile widens, then morphs into another coughing fit. I’m beside him instantly, rubbing his back in small circles until it subsides.
“Easy,” I murmur. “You need rest.”
“I need to finish reviewing—”
“Nothing. You need to finish reviewing nothing.” I take the tray from his lap. “The only thing you need to finish is recovering.”
He gives me a look that would probably intimidate a boardroom full of executives, but does absolutely nothing to me.
“You’re bossy when you’re nursing,” he observes.
“You’re a terrible patient.”
“So I’ve been told. Bed?”
I help him stand, surprised when he leans on me more heavily than I expected. His body radiates heat through his t-shirt, and I can feel the faint tremor in his muscles, betraying just how weak he really is.
Navigating to his bedroom takes longer than it should, his normally purposeful stride reduced to a careful shuffle. By the time we reach his king-sized bed, he’s breathing hard from the effort.
I help him sit on the edge of the mattress, then hesitate. “Do you need help changing?”
He shakes his head. “I can manage.”
I nod, relieved and oddly disappointed at the same time. “I’ll get you some water and more Tylenol.”
When I return, he’s managed to change into clean pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt, though the effort has clearly cost him. He’s sitting against the headboard, eyes closed, face drawn with exhaustion.
“Here.” I place the water and pills on his nightstand. “Take these before you sleep.”
He opens his eyes slowly. “Still playing nurse?”
“Just finishing my shift.” I try for a light tone, but something shifts in his gaze.
“Tatiana...” he begins, then stops, seeming to search for words.
“What is it?” I prompt when he doesn’t continue.
He looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing mine where they rest on the bed.
“Thank you,” he says again, but this time it feels heavier, weighted with unspoken meaning. “I’m not... good at needing people.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, strangely intimate. More intimate, somehow, than all the times we’ve spent together in this very bed.
“I’ve noticed,” I reply softly.
His fingers curl around mine, warm and sure despite his weakened state. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
“But you did.”
I look down at our joined hands. “I did.”
Something passes between us in that moment. An understanding, perhaps, or a recognition. A quiet acknowledgment that whatever this is between us has grown beyond the confines of our agreement.
And it terrifies me.
“You should get some rest,” I say, gently pulling my hand from his. “Call if you need anything.”
I turn to go, but his voice stops me at the doorway.
“Tatiana?”
I look back. He’s watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
“Five days,” he says softly.
My heart stutters in my chest. “I know.”
I close the door behind me and lean against it, trying to steady my breathing.
Yes, those feelings for him are definitely getting stronger.
What am I doing?
I only have five days to protect myself from making the biggest mistake of my life.
Because falling for a man who’s counting down the days until he can end our marriage?
That would be even worse than being left at the altar.
And yet, I’m sure he acknowledged that he’s feeling something, too. I’m sure of it.
But am I really?
You could just ask him...
I smile grimly. Yeah right. Just like I asked Rylan to marry me.
And that went so amazingly well.
Better to see this for what it is. Better to admit the truth.
In five days, it’s over.