Dirty Damage: Chapter 13

Of course it’s a penthouse.

And naturally, it’s nestled in the crown of Palm Beach’s most prestigious high-rise.

There’s rarified air, and then there’s whatever diamond-filtration system the people that live up there are huffing.

My forehead is still pressed to the bulletproof glass of the back window, gawking at the twenty-story monument to wealth, when Uri—the mountain masquerading as my new driver—thrusts a phone and a set of keys at me.

“For you.”

I take them both like they might explode in my hands. The contract I signed with Oleg was a detonator, blowing up my entire existence.

My downstairs neighbor Mr. Marcello’s granddaughter is already measuring my apartment for curtains, prepared to inherit not just my lease but most of my furniture.

Even if this whole thing with the Beast is a practical joke, there’s no going back now—I’m jobless, homeless, and couchless.

This is serious business.

“Everything you need is on that phone,” Uri informs me.

Unless it includes my dignity, I seriously doubt that.

He helps me out of the car and leads me to an elevator. The doors slide open with a soft ding and take us directly to Oleg’s foyer, which looks more like a hotel suite than a home.

A giant painted urn perches on a pedestal of veined marble, making me feel like I’ve stumbled into a museum after hours.

The theme his decorator went with, apparently, was white.

For variety, she went with pops of bright color in shades like off-white, kinda-white, and sorta-still-white.

Then, just to mix it up even further, she sprinkled in variations of white that rich people probably have fancy names for, like “winter whisper” and “cloud’s breath.”

“I’ll have your… things brought up for you.” Uri hesitates over the word, like my single overstuffed duffel bag hardly counts. “The boss insists you make yourself at home.”

It sounds vaguely menacing when he says it.

Make yourself at home… or else.

I scan the endless expanse of pristine surfaces and razor-sharp edges. “Does he actually live here?”

“Of course.”

“It’s just…” My eyes drift over the soaring floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of the Intracoastal, the undoubtedly expensive furniture pieces that look like they’ve never known human contact. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

“The boss likes things⁠—”

“Sterile? Soul-crushing? Utterly devoid of any trace whatsoever of personality?”

His lips twitch, creasing his weathered face despite his obvious attempt to maintain stoic professionalism.

“Simple,” he says. “The boss likes things simple.”

“Are you his spin team?” I tease. “Try this one, a fun little fill-in-the-blank: ‘I think the Beast is terrifying and possibly a sociopath, but you’d say he’s…’”

“My boss,” he finishes with an amused bow of his head. “And I’m just the driver.”

Given that Uri is built like a nuclear bunker, I’m willing to bet my right pinkie that that’s not all he is.

This man has snapped finger bones before without batting an eye, that’s for sure.

“And if I want to leave this ivory tower, I call you?”

He nods at the phone still in my hand. “My number is programmed in.”

“Right. Everything a girl could possibly need.”

Uri takes the elevator down, and I’m alone. In Oleg Pavlov’s penthouse.

I grip the phone like a lifeline, fighting the urge to call Uri back just for company.

Instead, I force myself to explore my new gilded cage.

The foyer opens into a great room that could comfortably fit my entire old apartment. The floors are polished white marble, gleaming like freshly fallen snow under recessed lighting. A huge, L-shaped sofa in cream leather dominates one corner, facing a wall-mounted TV. The coffee table looks like it was carved from a single piece of crystal.

Everything is flawlessly arranged—not a throw pillow or remote control out of place.

The kitchen is all white lacquered cabinets and stainless steel appliances that have clearly never seen use. When I open the Sub-Zero fridge, it’s completely empty except for a few bottles of sparkling water. The wine fridge is better stocked, loaded with bottles.

But there’s no coffee maker or knife block. No junk drawer full of rolls of tape and stray pens.

I’m starting to wonder if Oleg is actually Patrick Bateman in disguise.

Best-case scenario, he survives on nutrients he absorbs from the air. A grocery run is on the to-do list, for sure.

But first, I need to find my room before I lose my mind in this museum of minimalism.

The back hallway reveals three doors—two standard and one double-wide with gleaming bronze handles.

I choose door number one, revealing a guest room roughly the size of Rhode Island. The bed is dressed in what I’m sure are outrageously expensive white linens. The walls are bare except for abstract art in—you guessed it—shades of white and cream.

Door number two is similar, though it faces east instead of west. Both rooms have their own marble bathrooms with rainfall showers and soaking tubs deep enough to drown in.

But it’s the double doors at the end of the hall that call to me like a siren song.

I know I shouldn’t. This has to be Oleg’s room.

But my hand is on the handle before I can stop myself.

The doors glide open on silent hinges. So easily it’s almost like a thumbs-up.

This isn’t snooping. You’re welcome here.

“He did tell me to make myself at home,” I whisper.

Then my jaw hits the floor.

This isn’t a bedroom—it’s a royal suite.

The ceiling soars at least twenty feet high, with floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped in a graceful curve. Outside, a private terrace stretches the full width of the room, bordered by Grecian columns that make me feel like I’ve stumbled onto Mount Olympus.

The bed is a California king on a raised platform, dressed in what has to be the softest-looking white bedding I’ve ever seen.

But unlike the rest of the apartment, there are actual signs of life here. A phone charges on one nightstand next to a silver-framed photograph. A few crisp button-downs are draped over a leather bench at the foot of the bed. A book lies dogeared on the other nightstand.

I force myself to turn away from the bed before I do something stupid like bury my face in his pillows to inhale his scent.

Instead, I drift toward what I assume is the en-suite bathroom.

The door is cracked open. Yet again, fate is welcoming me inside. Come on in, Sutton—the snooping waters are fine.

The petty part of me would love to find a prescription for premature hair loss or erectile dysfunction that will make a little more sense of our match.

I find nothing of the sort.

“Now, this is a closet.” I whistle as I play with the soft-close drawers and run my fingers along the fine fabrics hanging in rainbow order—not that Oleg’s rainbow extends far beyond black, charcoal, and business blue.

The drawers are labeled in neat handwriting: cufflinks, watches, ties. Then there’s a cabinet with no label. It’s held closed with a small brass latch.

Like everything else in this apartment, it’s practically begging me to look inside.

I shouldn’t.

I really shouldn’t.

I do.

The door swings open…

… and a leather-tasseled whip falls at my feet.

Slowly, I drag my eyes up to take in what can only be described as a treasure trove of sex toys. Blindfolds in silk and leather. Lengths of rope hanging from hooks on the walls. And in the back, boxes of condoms in sizes that make my mouth go dry.

Oleg Pavlov isn’t just a beast.

He’s an animal.

I pick up a length of braided silk rope, mesmerized by how it slides through my fingers. Images flash unbidden through my mind—my wrists bound above my head, Oleg’s scarred face hovering over mine, his voice rough in my ear.

“You signed the contract, Sutton. You’re mine now.”

Heat rushes to my face.

My chest.

Other places, too.

I knew a man like Oleg would have some skeletons in the closet.

I just didn’t think those skeletons would be quite so… kinky.

I slam the doors closed and blink. This isn’t why I’m here—luxurious views, titillating sex toys. I’m here to make enough money to start over and get Sydney away from her asshole boyfriend.

That’s it.

“Stay focused,” I scold myself.

I choose the guest room farthest from Oleg’s sex dungeon and throw myself down on the bed. The mattress folds around me like a cloud, and I again suppress a moan.

Probably not for the last time, once the contract officially begins.

I strangle the devious little voice in my head. I’ll have sex with Oleg only until I’m pregnant, and then I’ll never touch him again. I’ll give birth to his child, write my sister a check to get the heck out of Vegas, and Oleg will be my platonic roommate.

My platonic roommate who has extra-large condoms that taste like raspberry in his closet.

“Shut up, shut up,” I mutter, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes.

I have got to get my thoughts in check. As Oleg had so nicely pointed out, his interest in me is not romantic.

It’s strictly business.

I have to remember that. I have to keep my guard up.

And I most definitely have to abide by the contract I signed.

First things first, though: I need food.

I reach for the phone in my back pocket, hoping I can summon Uri with a text and get him to take me grocery shopping.

But it isn’t my new phone—it’s my old phone.

And Drew’s name is lighting up my home screen.

I open the message just to dismiss it to the lowest circle of hell where he belongs, but my blood runs cold.

It’s a photo of my sister. Even through her oversized sunglasses, I can see the dark bruise on her cheek.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a text.

DREW: My buddy in Vegas just sent me this. What are we gonna do about it?

Finally, my X-rated Oleg fantasies evaporate as I remember why I’m actually here.

I text back for the first time in months.

I’m already doing something about it.