When we finally finish, it’s past midnight. She stands, gathering her notes.
“Your coffee mug collection,” she says suddenly.
“What about it?”
“It’s strange. Everything else in this penthouse follows your creative chaos approach. But the mugs...” She gestures toward the kitchen shelf where my collection sits. “Those are arranged in some deliberate order I can’t figure out. Not alphabetical, not by size, not by color. But definitely intentional.” She looks genuinely perplexed. “Why just those?”
I’m surprised she noticed this one inconsistency in my otherwise disorganized lifestyle. “They’re arranged by acquisition date. Oldest to newest.”
She studies me for a moment, as if seeing something unexpected. “Sentimental value in chronological order. The one thing you actually organize.” A small smile plays at her lips. “Interesting.” Before I can respond, she adds, “Thanks for dinner. The presentation is solid now.”
As she walks away, I realize something unsettling.
Despite my earlier pettiness, despite the contractual nature of our relationship, and despite everything that should keep us at arm’s length, Tatiana Cole is beginning to see me.
The real me, beyond the billionaire facade.
And that might be the most dangerous development yet.
15
Tatiana
Ijolt awake to the sound of something shattering.
For a disoriented moment, I have no idea where I am. This doesn’t look like my apartment...
Then it hits me. The guest bedroom in Dom’s penthouse. My temporary prison. Sorry, my temporarymarital home.
I’m still getting used to waking up here.
The digital clock on the nightstand glows 2:14 AM in bright green numbers. Great. I was having the best sleep I’ve had in days, probably because I was exhausted from poring over investor documents until midnight.
Go back to sleep, Tatiana. Whatever broke, someone on Dom’s payroll will clean it up tomorrow.
But my ears pick up another sound. Not breaking glass this time, but something softer.
A voice?
Music?
I can’t tell.
I should ignore it. I should roll over, pull the plush duvet up to my chin, and drift back into blissful unconsciousness. That would be the sensible thing to do.
Instead, I find myself slipping out of bed, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood floor. I grab my silk robe, which is another recent splurge from my billionaire blow-job fund, and tie it securely around my waist.
You’re not his wife, not really. You don’t need to investigate strange noises in the night. That’s what the security team is for.
But curiosity wins out over common sense. Story of my life lately.
I ease the bedroom door open, wincing when the hinges give a traitorous squeak. The hallway is dimly lit by recessed lighting, set to nighttime mode. The penthouse feels different at this hour. Like it’s somehow larger, emptier, with shadows pooling in the corners where the light doesn’t reach.
Another sound draws me toward the main living area. It’s a voice, low and rough.
Dom’s voice.
But not like I’ve ever heard it before.