Dirty Damage: Chapter 41

The mahogany double doors to the boardroom swing open just as I’m about to click to the next slide.

I’m in the middle of a presentation I’ve been preparing for the last three months—years, actually—when my uncle’s personal chef wheels in a cart loaded with covered silver platters, followed by two servers carrying wine bottles.

“A brief lunch break,” Boris announces, spreading his arms wide and grinning. “We can’t properly evaluate such an important proposal on empty stomachs, can we?”

Bullshit.

The timing is deliberate, designed to disrupt my momentum just as I was getting to the meat of my presentation.

This meeting will determine whether Pavlov Industries embraces the future or remains trapped in my uncle’s antiquated vision.

And after the warning I issued Boris a few weeks ago, he’s not willing to go quietly.

The board members shift in their ergonomic leather chairs, carefully not meeting my eyes as the first plates are set before them.

Duck confit with roasted fingerling potatoes. The rich aroma of herbs and rendered fat fills the air.

“Please, everyone, enjoy,” Boris gestures magnanimously. “The 2015 Château Margaux pairs beautifully with Chef Bernard’s signature dish.”

I cracked open my own bottle of wine last night, taking swigs from the bottle as Sutton and I flowed seamlessly from fucking to talking and back to fucking. We stayed up way too late, but I considered it an early celebration. No one would be able to deny the facts of my presentation.

Which is exactly why Boris is trying to stop me from delivering them.

I remain standing at the head of the conference table, one hand resting on my laptop. The proposal glows on the screen behind me.

The slides detail how my quantum-encrypted mesh network can and will revolutionize maritime security. Three years of R&D, countless sleepless nights, and now, Boris wants to derail it all with fucking duck confit.

I clear my throat. “I can continue with the presentation while you eat. The next section covers the proprietary algorithms that make our system impossible to hack or⁠—”

“Nonsense!” Boris interrupts, already working on his second glass of wine. “This deserves our full attention. Both the meal and your… proposal.” He draws out the last word like it tastes sour.

I grind my back teeth, tasting metal. The future of Pavlov Industries hangs on this vote. My surveillance system could position us to dominate the global maritime security market for the next decade.

But Boris would rather watch his empire crumble than see me succeed.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Sutton’s voice from last night, soft and sure.

“You’ve got this. Make them see what you see.”

The memory of her naked in my bed, hair wild across my pillows, threatens to derail my focus. I push it aside.

I can’t afford distractions right now, no matter how tempting.

I take my seat, watching the board members fall on their food like starving wolves. So be it. Let them gorge themselves into a food coma.

When the vote comes, I’ll make damn sure they remember more than just the duck.

I use the enforced break to review my notes, though I’ve memorized every detail. The quantum mesh network is elegant in its simplicity—a series of interconnected nodes that create an impenetrable security bubble around any vessel.

Boris drones on about wine vintages while I pull up the latest test results on my tablet. Last week’s trial run exceeded even my expectations. The system detected and disabled three cyber-attacks within milliseconds, while simultaneously tracking all physical threats, including boats, drones, and subsurface vehicles, within a five-mile radius.

The dessert course arrives just as Rodney Weiss wipes the last of the duck sauce from his mouth.

“Perhaps now, we could return to the presentation?” he suggests, and I detect a note of genuine interest beneath his diplomatic tone.

I’m back on my feet before Boris can object. The next slide fills the screen. It’s a 3D rendering of the integrated sensor array.

“This is where we differentiate ourselves from every other security system on the market,” I explain. “Traditional systems rely on predetermined threat signatures. Ours learns and adapts in realtime.”

Heads nod around the table. Even my mother has stopped pretending to be fascinated by her wine glass.

“I have a list of clients ready to pre-order. The implications for the super-yacht market alone—” I begin.

But Boris’s theatrical cough cuts me off.

“Yes, yes, very impressive.” Pitching his hands beneath his chin, he leans back in his chair. “But perhaps we should discuss the technical limitations?”

“It’ll be a short conversation,” I grit out. “There aren’t any.”

Boris scans the room, his mustache twitching in a suppressed smirk. “Spoken like someone who is lacking the wisdom and caution that comes with experience.”

Turning his back to me, he opens his own laptop.

The screen behind me flickers and changes. My carefully prepared slides vanish, replaced by internal testing data that should have been secure behind multiple firewalls.

Data showing early prototype failures.

Vulnerabilities that my team resolved months ago.

“As you can see,” Boris continues, his voice dripping with false concern, “there are significant issues with signal degradation in heavy weather. Not to mention the power consumption problems…”

The board members lean forward, frowning at numbers that paint an incomplete picture. Numbers stolen from my private servers.

How the fuck did he⁠—?

I meet my uncle’s eyes across the table and see the triumph there.

The bastard thinks he’s won.

“These numbers are outdated,” I cut in, keeping my voice steady despite the rage burning in my chest. “Our latest test results show⁠—”

“Is that so?” Boris affects an expression of exaggerated concern. “This data is from your own servers, nephew. Are you suggesting your research team has been falsifying reports?”

The subtle trap in his words makes my jaw clench. Any defense I offer now will only make me sound desperate or incompetent.

He’s played this perfectly, the crafty old fuck.

I scan the faces around the table. Rodney still looks interested, but uncertain now. The others are already shifting in their seats, preparing to side with whoever holds the most power.

Right now, that’s Boris.

“The question before us today is simple,” Boris continues, spreading his hands. “Do we risk the company’s future on an unproven system? Or do we maintain our position as industry leaders in traditional shipbuilding?”

“‘Traditional’?” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. “The maritime security landscape is evolving. Our competitors are already developing similar systems. If we don’t adapt⁠—”

“Then we’ll do what we’ve always done—we’ll make careful, methodical moves. We won’t chase every shiny new bauble that comes along.”

I clench my fists and watch decades of accumulated loyalty and influence tip the scales against innovation.

“I move that we put it to a vote,” Boris announces.

My mother finally raises her hand. “I suggest we table the discussion until⁠—”

“No.” I cut her off. “Let’s vote now.”

Why?

Because fuck it.

I want every person on this board to show their true colors.

I want to see exactly who I’m dealing with.

It’s the same shitshow as before. The votes are split between us, with my mother abstaining. Which means Boris’s position as CEO gives him the deciding say-so.

He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk as he delivers the final nail. “Motion denied. Now, shall we adjourn to my office for drinks?”

He sweeps out of the boardroom, followed by his loyal brood of brainless lackeys.

I remain at the head of the table, staring at the damning numbers still displayed on the screen.

Someone—either Boris or some poor schmuck who will be dead by the end of all of this—breached my security to access data that should have been private.

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking infuriating.

I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like wrap my hands around my uncle’s throat and squeeze until that smug smile disappears forever.

I gather my things, already mapping out my next moves, when the tap of heels on hardwood stills me. I don’t need to look up to know it’s my mother, lingering behind after the others have gone.

“That could have gone better,” she says mildly.

I snap my laptop closed with more force than necessary. “Really? I thought it went exactly according to plan. Boris’s plan.”

“Don’t be petulant.” She moves closer, lowering her voice. “If you want to play this game, you need to think three steps ahead. Boris clearly did.”

“He hacked my private servers.”

“Then perhaps your security isn’t as impressive as you claim.”

The barb strikes home, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

“Was there something specific you wanted to discuss, Mother? Or did you just come to offer unhelpful critiques?”

She studies me for a long moment, her face unreadable. Her aloofness has always been grating. The day of Oriana’s funeral, she was the picture of perfection in black Prada, a veil covering her face so no one could see she hadn’t shed a single tear.

Because nothing ever fazes Oksana Pavlov.

“How is your young lady?”

The abrupt change of subject nearly throws me. “Sutton is fine.”

“But not pregnant yet.”

And there it is. The real reason she stayed behind.

“It’s been less than six months,” I growl.

“Which means you have little time left before we need to consider other options.”

Something ugly rears up inside me at her words. “We won’t be considering anything. Sutton isn’t some disposable asset to be replaced if she doesn’t perform to specifications.”

“No?” Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. “Isn’t that exactly what she is? A means to an end? Don’t tell me you’re developing feelings for the girl.”

The fact that I can’t immediately deny it pisses me off more than anything else that’s happened today.

“I know exactly what this arrangement is,” I say coldly. “And I don’t need your input on how to manage it.”

She sighs, looking genuinely disappointed. “Love is a weakness, Oleg. Your father taught you that.”

“My father is dead.”

“Yes.” The word is clipped, final. “He is.”

She turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the ghost of my father and the memory of Sutton’s smile this morning.

I need to get the fuck out of here. My phone buzzes with calendar reminders—three meetings this afternoon, including a video call with our Chinese partners.

I cancel them all with a few taps.

The only cure for the headache brewing behind my eyes right now is the open ocean. I need the wooden deck under my feet and the salt spray on my face.

But, for the first time, I realize that’s not all I need.