Dirty Damage: Chapter 44

DREW: If you wanna know what’s going on in my life, babe, then I’m gonna need a kiss first. Meet me at our townhouse in an hour.

I fling my phone onto the passenger seat like it’s a live grenade that might detonate at any second.

Bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic.

The burner phone was a mistake. Everything about letting Drew slither back into my life was a mistake.

But here we are—him thinking he can snap his fingers and make me heel like the good little pet I used to be.

I dig my nails into my forearms, angry red welts appearing as I try to remind myself where I am, that I’m safe. It’s an old habit after years of foster care, bouncing around to different houses, different beds.

The tic always comes back when I’m scared.

And right now, I’m terrified.

Because Drew isn’t just in Florida anymore. He’s circling Pavlov Industries like a vulture sizing up carrion.

Another text lights up my screen.

DREW: Come on, babe. Don’t be shy. This place is your home, too, remember? I bought it for both of us.

“Fuck you,” I whisper.

That house was never a home. Even when Drew was out, I didn’t have any freedom, courtesy of the cameras he installed both inside and out of the townhouse to track my every move.

It was a prison.

Then it hits me.

My hands shake as I pull up the security app on my phone. Drew never changed his passwords. Ever. He said his “shit was locked up too tight to get hacked.”

So does that mean…?

Username: BigDickDrew

God, I wish I was making this shit up.

I type in the old password, holding my breath.

No way he kept it the same. No fucking way is he really that stu⁠—

The feed loads.

Six different camera angles pop up on my screen. Three inside, three outside.

And there’s Drew’s cherry Mustang parked in the driveway, next to a black sedan with custom plates.

I rewind the footage, pulse thundering in my ears as I watch Drew emerge from his car.

The sedan doors open a beat later. The men who step out of it aren’t anyone I recognize, but something about them makes my skin crawl.

This isn’t just Drew being Drew.

This is something else.

Something worse.

I save the footage and slam my car into drive, tires squealing as I peel out of the parking lot. I should go straight to Oleg. That’s what a good fiancée would do. What a trustworthy person would do.

But the fragile trust we’ve built over the past few days feels so delicate, like blown glass—beautiful but liable to shatter at the slightest touch.

If I tell him about Drew, I’ll have to tell him everything.

The burner phone. Sydney. Paul.

All of it.

So instead of heading home to Oleg, I point my car toward Artem and Faye’s place, praying I’m making the right choice.

Artem is in the front yard when I pull up, looking like some suburban dad fantasy in cargo shorts and a sweaty t-shirt.

“Hey, you,” he says, eyebrows lifting. “Were we expecting you?”

“Sorry.” I cringe, already regretting this. “Surprise visit.” I glance around for tiny humans. “Where are the little ones?”

“With their grandparents. Hence the unusual quiet.” He gestures toward the house as Faye emerges carrying a tray. “We were just about to have lunch. You want to join?”

“Oh, God, no, I don’t want to impose. This’ll be quick.”

Faye sets down a pitcher of lemonade and what looks like grown-up sandwiches—the kind without crusts cut off. There’s an ice-cold beer for Artem, too.

“Everything okay, Sutton? You look rattled.” Artem pulls up a third chair while something sharp and hollow pierces my chest.

Will I ever have this? This slice of suburban paradise with its manicured lawn and matching patio furniture?

Will Oleg and I ever lounge in our garden on child-free afternoons?

Will all our afternoons be child-free if I can’t get pregnant?

Will there even be an “us” without a baby?

I don’t plan on sitting, but my knees give out and I sink into the chair, clutching my phone in white-knuckled hands.

“Th-thanks,” I manage when Faye squeezes my shoulder. “I’m really sorry to crash your lunch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Faye scolds. “We’re here whenever you need us.”

I turn to Artem, throat tight. “I have something you need to see. I don’t know what it means or how dangerous it might be, but… I thought you should know.”

I pull up the surveillance footage and hand over my phone. Faye leans in to watch with him.

Artem’s face stays neutral—right up until the black sedan appears. Then his features harden into something that makes my stomach drop.

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare.

Fuck. He definitely knows who these men are.

He hands back my phone without a word, his expression carved from stone.

“You know them?” My voice comes out small.

“Do you?” There’s an edge to his question that makes me flinch.

“I know Drew,” I explain, picking at my nails. “The guy with the Mustang. He’s my ex. We broke up ages ago⁠—”

“But you still have access to his surveillance system?” One dark eyebrow arches up like a question mark made of skepticism.

I cross my arms, nails digging into my flesh again. “He never changes his passwords. Probably forgot I had the code.”

That eyebrow stays raised, calling bullshit without saying a word. “And the others?”

“No idea.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “But I’m guessing you do.”

Faye’s head swivels between us like she’s watching some high-stakes tennis match, wanting to jump in but not knowing which side to pick.

“Why didn’t you take this to Oleg?” Artem’s voice is soft. Dangerous.

“Because I was scared,” I whisper. “The board sided with Boris again and he’s already dealing with so much. I didn’t want to make it worse by telling him about Drew and whatever fucked-up game he’s playing.”

“And what game do you think that is?”

I exhale slowly. “Nothing good.”

His eyes slide to Faye, then back to me. “You’re right, Sutton. I know exactly who those men are. Which means I have to act. And I can’t do that properly without involving Oleg.”

I flinch, even though I knew this was coming. “Then you should know there’s more.”

His whole body goes still. “Go on.”

“I saw Drew’s car leaving Pavlov Industries this morning. That’s why I checked the cameras in the first place.”

Artem nods once, sharp and decisive. “Thank you for telling me. But now, you need to tell Oleg. All of it.”

My heart tries to crawl up my throat. “Those men… Are they dangerous? Will they hurt Oleg?”

He actually snorts. “They wish.” He stands, all six-foot-something of him radiating violent purpose. “Tell Oleg everything you just told us. He needs to hear it from you first.”

My palms are sweating when I grab my keys. “Thanks for listening.”

Faye pulls me into a hug. “It’s going to be okay, honey.”

I manage a tight smile because I can’t make my mouth form the lie of agreeing with her.

Then I’m back in my car, rehearsing how to tell Oleg that I’ve been keeping secrets while his uncle tries to destroy everything he’s built.

The speech dies in my throat when I reach the concierge desk at his penthouse tower. The guy working—Alex? Andre?—waves me over with a sympathetic dip of his graying mustache.

“Miss Palmer, Mr. Pavlov left a message.”

My stomach drops through the floor. “Oh?”

“He had to leave rather suddenly. Said it was urgent business.”

The world tilts sideways. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

“No, ma’am. But he left this for you.”

The note is tiny. Just a scrap of paper, really. But my hands shake as I unfold it.

Three words in Oleg’s bold scrawl: Don’t wait up.