45. Tatiana
45
Tatiana
I stare at the spreadsheet on my monitor, trying to focus on the numbers instead of the hollow feeling in my chest. It’s been three days since I signed the annulment papers. Three days since I officially began the process of erasing Dominic Rossi from my life.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I adjust the projections for the boutique hotel chain’s operational efficiency proposal. Christopher wants this ready by end of day, and I refuse to let my personal disaster affect my performance. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that competence is an emotional shield.
Thank God for the routine of my everyday work at Blackwell Innovations. While my personal life has been a high-speed train wreck, my executive suite desk remains blissfully unchanged. The same ancient printer that makes death rattles before functioning, Christopher’s office tucked away in the back, and my meticulously organized workspace that has been my sanctuary through this entire billionaire-marriage fiasco.
And best of all? I can actually leave the building at lunch without a security detail materializing from the lobby like well-dressed ninjas.
I roll my shoulders, savoring the freedom of my morning commute today. Walking into a coffee shop on my own, ordering, and leaving without two suits monitoring the exits. Running an errand after work on Friday without explaining my itinerary to anyone with an earpiece.
Freedom! Sweet, glorious freedom! No more Nichols asking if I need anything while I’m buying tampons. No more Franks standing guard outside restaurant bathrooms like I might escape through the plumbing or be kidnapped mid-pee. No more explaining to strangers that “No, I’m not famous, my husband’s just rich and paranoid.”
Still, there’s a strange emptiness to this freedom. Like the weird phantom sensation of a ring you’ve worn for years and suddenly removed.
Like my own wedding ring, which once sat on my finger, now lying tucked away in my apartment nightstand.
I couldn’t bring myself to toss it, odd as that sounds. I guess a part of me can’t believe my marriage is really over. Even though I always knew it would end. I signed a contract to that effect, after all.
The contract. Stop thinking about it.
About him .
I check my watch. 1:15 PM. My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast. Again.
Because who needs actual nutrition when you can subsist on coffee and emotional trauma?
My phone buzzes with a text from Sabrina. How’s work? Still coming over for wine and whining tonight?
I smile despite myself. My girls have been relentless the past few days, refusing to let me spiral. Friday night was tequila (bad idea). Saturday was movies and ice cream (worse idea—watching The Notebook while emotionally compromised should be classified as self-harm). Sunday was brunch and shopping therapy that my credit card is still recovering from.
Yes to wine, I text back. But maybe less whining tonight? Trying this new thing called “emotional stability.”
She responds immediately: Boring. But fine. 7pm. Making pasta.
I set my phone down just as my work line rings. It’s the main receptionist downstairs.
“Ms. Cole, there’s a courier here with a package requiring your signature.”
“Be right there.”
I take the elevator down and when I reach reception, a bored-looking guy in a bike helmet hands me a manila envelope and a digital tablet to sign. Once he leaves, I open it right there, curiosity winning over professionalism.
Inside is a formal letter from Arthur Sterling, Dominic’s attorney. My heart stutters as I scan the contents.
“This letter confirms that the settlement amount of $500,000 has been transferred to your account, effective immediately. In addition, although you have already received one hundred thousand dollars as an advance for incidentals, Mr. Rossi has chosen not to deduct this amount from your final settlement. Please note that Mr. Rossi has authorized this payment independent of and prior to the finalization of the annulment proceedings.”
I blink at the paper. Reread it. He’s paying me before the annulment is finalized? And letting me keep the advance without deducting it from the final settlement? Why?
Something shifts uncomfortably in my chest. I fold the letter carefully and head back toward the elevator. Before entering, I grab my personal phone and log into my banking app.
There it is. A pending deposit for half a million dollars.
Holy shit. Half a million dollars. I could buy a small apartment outright. Start my own business. Travel the world for a year. Or maybe just retire to a cave and never interact with another human being again.
Cave renovations are surprisingly affordable these days, after all.
But why would he release the funds early? Why not wait until the annulment was finalized as originally planned?
I enter the elevator, and when I reach the office, I sit behind my desk and call my own lawyer.
“Tatiana,” she answers briskly. “I was about to call you. You’ve seen the transfer?”
“Yes. I just got the letter. But I don’t understand. The annulment isn’t finalized yet.”
There’s a slight pause. “That’s what I was calling about. Mr. Rossi hasn’t signed the papers yet.”
The world tilts. “What? It’s been three days. I thought—”
“Arthur Sterling has been pushing him, apparently. But he’s refused thus far.”
“But the money—”
“Is yours, unconditionally. He specifically instructed that your settlement be processed regardless of the annulment status.”
I sit heavily in my chair. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do Mr. Sterling or I, frankly. But you should know that legally, you’re still married until those papers are signed and filed.”
I thank her and hang up, mind racing.
Still married. Still technically Mrs. Dominic Rossi. Dear God, why is nothing in my life ever clean and simple?
I rub my temples, trying to ward off an impending headache. I should be angry. He’s dragging this out, extending my limbo state. But the settlement money... sending it early, unconditionally, doesn’t fit with someone playing games.
My phone buzzes with a notification. I freeze when I read it: Voice memo from Dominic Rossi.
My finger hovers over the screen. Delete it? Listen to it? Throw my phone out the window?
Come on, Tatiana. You’re a big girl. Listen to whatever pathetic excuse he’s cooked up, then move on with your life.
I grab my earbuds, plug them in, and press play before I can change my mind.
His voice fills my ears, that deep timbre that used to send shivers down my spine.
“Tatiana, I know you don’t want to hear from me. I wouldn’t want to hear from me either, after what I did...”
I listen, frozen, as he explains about the home invasion when he and Nico were teenagers. The guilt that’s haunted him. How he’s spent years trying to atone for his cowardice.
Then he gets to the part that makes my breath catch.
“After you left that night, something happened. There was a home invasion at the penthouse.”
My heart pounds as he describes men breaking in. Him thinking I was still there. Fighting. Getting shot.
Oh my God, he was shot? Is he okay? Why didn’t anyone tell me?
The thought that he was injured, that something happened to him, sends a wave of concern washing through me that’s alarming in its intensity.
He continues, his voice raw with emotion. “I fought because I thought you were there. That you needed protection. It was only after it was over that I realized you were gone.”
I press a hand to my mouth. The image of Dom, bleeding, calling out for me when I wasn’t there... it’s almost too much.
“I confronted Nico the next day,” he goes on. “It got physical. We cleared the air, somewhat. I refuse to be manipulated by guilt anymore. I told him he’s not getting any money or shares or you .”
The memo continues. He explains the settlement. The unsigned annulment papers. Then his voice drops lower, vulnerable in a way I’ve rarely heard.
“The contract period is over, but my feelings aren’t. I love you, Tatiana. I think I have for a while now. I was just too much of a coward to admit it, even to myself. Especially to myself.”
The recording ends, leaving me sitting in stunned silence, tears streaming down my face.
He loves me? Dominic Rossi, the man who betrayed me to his brother, who pushed me away at every turn, loves me?
I replay the message, listening carefully for any hint of manipulation or insincerity. But there’s none of his usual smooth corporate tone. This is raw. Real. A man laying himself bare.
My phone buzzes with a message from Sabrina. It’s a link to a trade publication article with the note: Is this for real??
I click it, wiping away tears as I read.
“ROSSI DEVELOPMENTS UNDERGOING STRUCTURAL REORGANIZATION: Sources within Rossi Developments confirm that CEO Dominic Rossi is implementing sweeping changes in leadership structure. Notably, veteran executive James Garcia has been appointed to lead the $1.5 billion Serenity Shores resort project in Costa Rica with full autonomy, a dramatic shift for the notoriously hands-on Rossi.”
The article continues, detailing other changes... delegation, transparency initiatives, restructured approval processes.
I laugh through my tears. “The control freak delegating? Impossible.”
But the evidence is right there. He’s actually changing things. Doing exactly what he said in his message. I’m trying to be better. Do better.
Don’t be naive, Tatiana. People don’t change overnight. This could just be a PR move. A calculated effort to win you back... for optics.
But the settlement money without conditions... the unvarnished truth in his voice message... the changes at his company... these aren’t the actions of someone playing games.
My desk phone rings, startling me. It’s Christopher.
“Ms. Cole, I’d like to see you in my office.”
Great. Just what I need. My boss catching me with mascara tracks down my face.
I clean up quickly and head to Christopher’s office, hoping my red eyes aren’t too obvious.
“Tatiana,” he greets me, looking up from his desk. “I wanted to check on how the boutique hotel proposal is—” He pauses, taking in my appearance. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just allergies.”
His expression says he doesn’t believe me for a second. “I couldn’t help overhearing your phone call earlier.”
“Which one?” I ask, then realize he means my conversation with my lawyer. “Of course you did.”
He has the grace to look slightly abashed. “These walls are thinner than the contractors promised.”
I sigh. “It’s fine. Nothing I wouldn’t have told you eventually.”
Christopher studies me. “So Dominic hasn’t signed the annulment papers.”
“No.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
I laugh humorlessly. “Confused? Angry? Hopeful? Take your pick.”
Christopher leans back in his chair. “You know, you gave me relationship advice once.”
I nod, remembering how I’d encouraged him to pursue Lucy Hammond even though it seemed he’d lost all hope of ever getting her back.
“So now it’s my turn to return the favor.”
I sink into the chair across from him. “I’m all ears. God knows I need help.”
He smiles slightly. “Most relationship conflicts aren’t truly about incompatibilities, communication gaps, or even emotional wounds.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No?”
“No. They’re because of differences between how fast each person processes emotional events. Think of it as... an emotional metabolism.”
I stare at him. “An emotional metabolism? I wasn’t expecting something... so profound.”
Christopher laughs. “I’m a billionaire. I speak in profundities.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Go on.”
“One partner rapidly cycles through emotions, quickly interpreting and resolving conflict, while the other processes them slowly, experiencing the same event more intensely or with delayed resonance.” He leans forward. “We assume others’ emotional metabolisms match our own, which creates misunderstandings and resentment.”
The words hit home. Dom carrying his brother’s trauma in secret, letting it fester and control his decisions while refusing to actually address it head-on. Meanwhile, I process emotions like I’m sorting laundry, methodically separating lights from darks, addressing each feeling as it comes in.
“Recognition of this difference in processing speeds,” Christopher continues, “can open up a hidden path toward unity and understanding.”
“Thank you, Christopher,” I say softly.
When I return to my desk, I sit for a long time, thinking. I replay Dominic’s message again. Read the article again. Consider the changes he’s making.
I think about Rylan, who left me at the altar and never once took responsibility. Who made excuses and blamed circumstances. Who never fought for me or changed a single thing about himself.
Then I think about Dom. Who betrayed me, yes. Who hurt me deeply. But who is also, it seems, actually trying to change. Taking responsibility. Not making excuses.
I text Sabrina: Rain check on tonight? Need time to think.
Her reply comes quickly: Is it because of the Rossi Developments article I sent you?
Yes and no , I return.
He contacted you, didn’t he? What did he say?
I hesitate, then type: That he loves me.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Disappear. Finally: Do you believe him?
The question sits heavy in my chest. Do I? Can I trust again after being burned so badly?
The cautious part of me screams no. The part still raw from betrayal insists he’ll just hurt me again. But another voice, smaller but persistent, wonders if people can change. If some mistakes, even terrible ones, can be forgiven.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open a new message to Dominic.
I got your voice memo. I’m willing to meet. Just to talk. Neue Galerie café, tomorrow at 12:15pm. It’s public, quiet, and I have a meeting nearby at 1:00, so it will be brief.
I hit send before I change my mind, then add: I’m sorry you were hurt during the break-in. Are you okay?
The reply comes almost instantly: I’ll be there. And yes, just a graze. I’m fine. Thank you for asking. And thank you for agreeing to hear me out.
I set my phone down, heart racing. What am I doing? Meeting the man who betrayed me? Who wanted to trade me to his brother? Am I really that desperate?
No. Not desperate. Brave, maybe. Or stupid. Possibly both.
But as scared as I am of being hurt again, I’m more afraid of what happens if I don’t at least hear him out. If I don’t give us both the chance to face what happened.
Some wounds need air to heal. And some truths need to be spoken face to face.
I return to the boutique hotel proposal, throwing myself into work to distract myself from tomorrow’s meeting.
But a small, terrifying hope has taken root in my chest.
Maybe things will work out between us after all.