Dirty Damage: Chapter 47

I’m staring down at my phone as I step out onto the sidewalk outside of Oleg’s apartment building.

He texted for me to meet him outside, but he hasn’t responded to tell me why.

I’m about to call him when a sleek red convertible glides to a stop in front of me.

It’s the kind of car celebrities drive down Rodeo Drive with silk Prada scarves in their hair and oversized sunglasses perched on their perfectly sculpted noses.

My breath catches when I see who’s behind the wheel.

Oleg is better than any Hollywood heartthrob in a crisp white shirt and dark pants. His scarred face is devastatingly handsome in the afternoon sun. He climbs out, all controlled power and lethal grace, and opens the passenger door.

It swings up instead of out, because of course it does. Rich people don’t have time for normal doors.

“Get in.”

“Whose car is this? Where are we going?” I glance down at my boring gray t-shirt and jeans. “I don’t think I’m dressed for⁠—”

“It’s mine. You’re perfect.” His golden eyes soften as he smiles. “And trust me; you are.”

Something flutters in my stomach—anticipation, nervousness, desire. I twist my new engagement ring around my fingers.

It’s become a habit ever since Oleg gave it to me, like I need to keep reminding myself that it’s there. That he wants this relationship between us to be something more than just a contract.

Not love, but something close enough.

I slide into the buttery leather seat, inhaling that intoxicating new car smell mixed with Oleg’s cologne. The engine purrs to life and we merge into traffic, heading north.

Palm trees and art deco buildings give way to quieter streets lined with mansions hidden behind elaborate gates. We pass Artem and Faye’s neighborhood, but keep going until the houses get even bigger, more palatial.

“Oleg… what is this?”

If this is a surprise party at an oligarch’s house, I’m going to kill him. I’m barely dressed well enough to sit in this car. I can’t be seen like this in public. Oksana would never forgive me.

Oleg kills the engine and comes around to open my door, revealing a huge gate and a looming mansion set way off behind it.

“This,” he explains, “is ours… if you like it.”

“Our what? Like, an Airbnb or something? Are we renting this?”

He snorts. “Do I look like a man who rents things, Sutton?”

I’m still processing his words as we walk up to the entrance, where a man in an impeccable suit waits to greet us.

Oleg introduces me to the real estate agent, Andrew Carter, as though this is all perfectly normal. As though dropping by to casually shop for multimillion-dollar waterfront properties is just another Tuesday afternoon.

Oleg is talking through the amenities as Andrew unlocks the front door. “There’s a big backyard on the water with dock access for me. A nice kitchen for you. Plus, a pool and plenty of bedrooms…”

… for the kids.

He doesn’t say it, but I hear the words hanging there all the same. This relationship doesn’t exist without those promised future children.

Regardless of what Oleg said in the bath the other night, he’s with me for what I agreed to give him.

Partners though we may be, I still have a job to do.

This house is going to be my office.

My head spins as we step inside. The foyer alone is bigger than any place I ever lived in growing up, with soaring twenty-foot vaulted ceilings and a crystal chandelier. Sunlight streams through the windows, making the white marble floors gleam like fresh snow.

“What do you think?”

It’s an impossible question to answer. I have no idea what I think.

There’s something warm and inviting about the house. It feels lived-in. It feels like a place where children could grow up. Where happy memories could be made. From every window in every room, you can see the brilliant blues of the water and the lush greens of the grass.

It’s too much. It’s everything I never dared to dream about.

“Take a look around,” Oleg suggests, his hand warm and reassuring on the small of my back. “I’ll catch up with you.”

I wander through the main level in a daze, dragging my fingers along smooth walls and cool stone countertops.

The kitchen is a chef’s dream, all professional-grade appliances and endless granite workspace.

A temperature-controlled wine room.

A library with built-in shelves that reach to the ceiling.

I climb the sweeping staircase, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. The upper floor is flooded with natural sun from a skylight, casting leaf-shadow patterns across the hallway.

Five bedroom doors stand open, beckoning me.

The first room I peek my head into has a set of bunk beds against the back wall with superhero sheets clinging to the mattresses. A house this big and a couple kids still have to share?

Get to share, maybe.

For the first time, I imagine Oleg and I with multiple children. Actual parents to an actual family.

I pull the door closed.

Professional art worth what must be hundreds of thousands of dollars hangs in the hallway, interspersed with tacked-up crayon drawings. One is of a stick figure holding a dog’s leash. The person and dog both have wide, toothy grins. M-shaped birds fly across a big yellow sun.

Four more stick figures are lined up on a hill in the back. My family is scrawled in the bottom corner in messy block writing. The F is backwards. It’s utterly adorable.

Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I whip around before they can fall.

I’m being stupid. It’s a kid’s drawing. So what if I never once drew a picture of a happy family like that? So what if I never had anyone to pin my drawings to the walls? I’m an adult. The time for crying about what I never got is long over.

I move to the last room, pushing open the door in hopes of a beige-painted guest room. Instead, I find a pink paradise. A four-poster bed is hung with gauzy curtains. The vanity in the corner has Broadway-style lights around the mirror. Disney princess posters cover one wall—Moana, Ariel, Ella.

I would’ve killed for this bedroom as a kid. Again, the flash of golden eyes and curly hair I’ve been imagining more and more often lately appears in my mind.

But it’s more than just an image of our imaginary daughter. The part of the fantasy I left out when I told Oleg was the way I see myself holding her in my arms…

… and Oleg sitting next to me, his arms wrapped around us, cradling us both to his chest like we’re the most precious things he’s ever had.

Like we’re all he’s ever wanted.

Like we’re enough.

“Am I right in thinking you want dibs on this room?”

Oleg’s voice startles me from behind. I twist around and find him leaning against the doorway, a carefree smile on his face.

I try to blink the fantasy away before he can sniff it out and slap the same expression onto mine.

“Hot pink bed and princess curtains? It’s every girl’s dream.”

Oleg sees right through me. He always does.

I turn away to hide my face, but his arms slide around my waist from behind. Just like they did in my fantasy. “What’s wrong, Sutton?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” I swallow hard. “I never thought I’d have a home like this.”

“It’s time to expand that imagination of yours.” He presses a kiss to my neck. “All of this can be yours.”

All of it?

Even you?

The ring on my finger feels suddenly like an anchor dragging me down. All of this—the house, his easy smile, the way he can’t seem to go more than a day without surprising me with a ring, flowers, a house—is concrete around my ankles.

Like I’m being pulled to the bottom of the ocean, with no hope of keeping my head above the waters of reality.

I pull away, needing space. “It’s too much house. Five bedrooms? Six and a half baths? Who do we need all of that space for?”

“For our future family.”

I wince. Oleg and I might have children. We might be “equals.”

But we’ll never be the happy stick figures on the hill.

The pool, the dock, and all the shiny things Oleg keeps surprising me with will only ever be the shiny facade disguising the truth.

I never dreamt something like this could be mine…

… because it can’t.

As much as I tell myself I’m different from Sydney, I auctioned my life and happiness away to the highest bidder.

I’ve made this bed, and now, I have to lie in it.

“Do you like it?” Oleg presses. “Andrew has a few other places lined up, but I thought this one fit the bill. I knew you’d like the kitchen. Plus, this pink room for⁠—”

“I’m just happy to have a roof over my head,” I mumble, avoiding his eyes. I can feel Oleg’s stare burning a hole in the side of my face, but I refuse to look at him. “If you want the house, get it. It’s your money.”

I don’t wait for his response.

I just flee down the hallway, leaving him standing there among someone else’s memories, someone else’s perfect life captured in frames that I couldn’t recreate even if I wanted to.

The sooner I accept that, the better.