Can’t face my own guilt.

What the fuck am I doing?

Some debts can never be repaid. That’s what I tell myself. The scars on Nico’s face are permanent reminders of my failure. My cowardice. If giving him a shot with Tatiana helps balance the scales, isn’t that worth it?

But even as I think it, I know it’s bullshit. This isn’t about Nico. It’s about my guilt. My fear.

I glance at my watch. Five hours until dinner. Five hours to decide what kind of man I am.

I pick up the phone to cancel the dinner. Then put it down again.

I’m still that same scared kid. Still a fucking coward.

The deal is closed. My professional triumph secure. But as I sit in my corner office overlooking the city I’ve conquered, I’ve never felt smaller and more defeated.

38

Tatiana

Icheck myself in the mirror one more time, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles in my charcoal pencil skirt. The cream blouse is simple but expensive, one of the many purchases I’ve made with my advance.

Because nothing says “I’m totally fine with our relationship ending tomorrow” like spending money on designer clothes I’ll probably never wear again.

My mind drifts back to this morning’s boardroom scene. The champagne toasts. The handshakes. The billions changing hands as Dom’s resort deal finally closed. The sheer relief on his face when that last signature was in place. I felt it too. That rush of accomplishment, that pride in what we’d pulled off together.

Quite the power couple we’ve become. Too bad our expiration date is literally tomorrow.

The annulment papers are probably sitting on his lawyer’s desk right now, waiting for our signatures.

The thought makes my stomach twist. I’m not even sure I want to sign them anymore, honestly. Because maybe there’s a chance. He looked at me differently last night, held me like I mattered. The things he whispered about connections that can’t be denied, about me finding my way past all his barriers. Those weren’t just empty words.

Or were they?

Today, after the meeting, I asked him what’s next for us.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he told me.

Later. Always later, with him.

And I suppose there won’t be time to talk about it when he gets home. He’ll probably be in a rush, wanting to make this business dinner thing.

On cue, I hear the penthouse front door swinging open, pulling me from my thoughts.

Dom’s home.

Here to pick me up for dinner.

I step out of the bathroom just as he strides in. He’s loosening his tie with one hand while the other clutches his phone like he’s trying to strangle it. His face is a storm cloud. Like, literally.

“Hey,” I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere near cautious. “Ready for the dinner? And congratulations on the deal, again. We did it.”

He grunts distractedly, moving to the bar and pouring himself two fingers of whiskey. He doesn’t offer one to me. The amber liquid disappears in one swallow, and he immediately pours another.

Well, this is going splendidly already. Nothing says ‘celebratory mood’ like day drinking alone while your temp wife stands awkwardly in the living room.

“Is everything okay?” I venture.

“Fine.” The word is clipped, defensive.