Dirty Damage: Chapter 10

Maybe I do believe in fairytales after all.

Oleg Pavlov is on the surly end of the Prince Charming spectrum, but the money, the yacht, the personal driver behind the wheel of a Maybach—it points to a world where magical things happen.

Just not to me.

The waxed black car rolls to a stop in front of my armpit stain of an apartment. I barely get the door closed before the car is pulling away, like the driver is afraid his luxury car will devolve into a copy of my rusted-out Ford if he spends more than a minute on this block.

Oh, shit.

“Wait! I left my car keys in⁠—”

I jog into the street to flag down the driver, but he’s already turning the corner.

I drag a hand down my face. “It’s not like I have a job to get to in the morning, anyway.”

The million-dollar contract in my hand suddenly feels heavier. I tuck it under my arm and drag myself up three flights of stairs.

The lock on my door sticks, like it’s giving me one last chance to run away and join the circus instead of considering Oleg Pavlov’s insane proposition.

But the circus probably doesn’t offer dental.

I shoulder my way inside and the wall of humid air hits me like a slap in the face. The age-old Palm Beach dilemma—run the A/C and price yourself out of your apartment, or save on electricity and slowly dissolve into a puddle of sweat.

Today’s forecast: partly cloudy with a 100% chance of mold.

I kick the door closed, shuffle through the darkness, and flop onto my bed.

My phone is buzzing in my front pocket—has been for the entire drive back from that fever dream of an “interview.”

I ignore it. Turns out, I’m not in the headspace to talk to people.

Especially since the last person I spoke to asked to rent out my uterus.

“For one million dollars,” I whisper to myself, like saying the number out loud might normalize it.

Nope.

Not normal.

Still batshit insane.

I pull out the contract, forcing myself to read every line. Every clause. Every carefully crafted word designed to bind me to Oleg Pavlov and his empire.

It’s formal. Filled with legal terms I don’t understand and a ton of rules and clauses I have to reread several times.

But at the end of the hour, I have a working understanding of what Oleg Pavlov wants from me.

A baby.

Marriage, too, though that’s more for legitimacy.

In the same world where he needs to “produce an heir,” he also has to make sure that heir isn’t an illegitimate love child.

… minus the love.

Per the contract, I’d be moved to the digs of my choosing, where a full staff would be at my beck and call.

I’d receive a monthly stipend for my expenses—money for air conditioning, praise be.

And all of that is in addition to the one million dollars he’s dangling in front of me.

“Sounds like happily-ever-after,” I mutter.

Syd and I sat in foster homes and shelters, daydreaming about the lives we’d lead one day. She wanted a gold-plated mansion, and I talked about ponies and soft-serve ice cream machines.

Now, I could make that happen.

I could get her away from Paul—lure her out with homemade waffle cones and a jacuzzi tub. After everything she’s done for me, I owe her.

Maybe this could be the fairy tale ending for us both.

Then my eyes dip to the bottom of the page.

Relationship Termination.

The contract outlines that, if the marriage proves to be unhappy, either party is free to terminate the contract and obtain a divorce. In that event, Oleg and I would share physical and legal custody of our child and/or children⁠—

Wait. Fuck me—children, plural?

Would we have sex enough to have multiple children?

My hand drifts to my flat stomach. How many mini-Beasts does Oleg Pavlov expect me to pop out?

Are we talking Irish twins?

A whole litter of scowling babies with golden eyes?

The mental image should terrify me.

Instead, heat pools low in my belly.

Get it together, Palmer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again, and I’m desperate enough for a distraction that I drag it out of my pocket.

It’s Mara. But before I can answer, the call drops, and I realize it’s the fifth missed call from her.

What the hell?

Five missed calls from Mara. A dozen texts from numbers I don’t recognize.

Is this Drew again? He can kiss my ass. I meant it when I told him I was done being his favorite toy to break.

I hit redial on Mara’s number, ready to spill everything. The Beast. The contract. The whole twisted fairy tale.

I didn’t sign the NDA, so I don’t owe Oleg Pavlov anything.

Yet.

But once I sign it, can Mara be grandfathered into the arrangement?

Or is this an if I tell you, I have to kill you kind of thing?

Before I can decide what to do, Mara’s voice cuts through the static like a blade. “Jesus, Sut, where have you been? Are you seeing what’s going down in the work chat?”

Mara is a gossip. Even if I swore her to secrecy, she’d never be able to keep it to herself.

And something tells me Oleg doesn’t appreciate loose lips.

“Are you even listening to me?” Mara asks.

“Sorry, Mar. I was far away.”

“‘Far away’ is where you might have to move if this gets much worse,” she snaps. “Have you checked the Pavlov Slack channel today?”

My stomach plummets to my toes. “No, I left the chat when I put in my resignation. Why?”

“Fuck.” Mara’s voice is heavy. Like she’s about to deliver a death sentence. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Sutton…”

Is it possible Oleg was fucking with me? That he recorded our entire conversation on that yacht and released it to the company chat?

Look everyone—here’s our resident company slut. Not only does she wear tiny princess costumes and flash her tits to the world, she accepts shady marriage contracts in exchange for cash.

“What is it?” My voice comes out like a whisper. “Just tell me.”

“It’s Monica Leong.”

“Scottie’s mother?”

The phone crackles as Mara exhales. “She had a complete meltdown in the chat this morning. She’s saying your behavior wasn’t just inappropriate—it was dangerous.”

“‘Dangerous’?” The word feels like acid in my mouth.

“She’s being a total fucking Karen. Claiming you should be barred from working with children altogether.”

I shoot up from the bed, contract pages scattering across my Target clearance comforter. “She can’t be serious.”

“That bitch has a permanent stick up her ass. She’s always serious, and she’s already posted your boudoir photos all over social media with this epic manifesto about ethics and professionalism and accountability.”

“Oh, God…” The room starts to spin. “If everyone at work didn’t see the pictures before HR removed them, they will now.”

She winces. “Not just people at work, Sut…”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“Her post is public, babe. It’s got your full name… and your phone number.”

To punctuate her point, my phone buzzes again.

More messages.

More missed calls.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes. “But you’ve gone viral.”