Dirty Damage: Chapter 6

My heart thuds against my ribs as I check the peephole for the third time in as many minutes.

This time, it’s occupied.

The hallway’s mottled beige carpet and flickering overhead light frame Mara’s distorted face as she scrunches her features into a grotesque mask, tongue sticking out at an impossible angle.

Despite everything, a tiny laugh bubbles up in my throat.

I unlock the door with trembling fingers, the metal cool against my clammy skin. The deadbolt slides back with a heavy thunk that seems too final, too permanent for a Tuesday morning that started like any other before transforming into this waking nightmare.

“Hey, disaster girl.”

Mara pushes past me, two giant smoothies from Juice Junction clutched in her hands. The familiar logo—a cartoon orange with sunglasses—mocks me with its cheerfulness.

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

The nickname fits too well today.

Mara sets the drinks on my cluttered kitchen counter and turns to face me. Her eyes—sharp and knowing—scan me from head to toe, taking in my unwashed hair, the oversized Pavlov Industries t-shirt I sleep in, and the dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

“C’mere,” she commands, opening her arms.

I hesitate for half a second before collapsing into her embrace.

She’s small—five-foot-nothing on a good day—but her hug envelops me completely, steady and grounding. I press my face into her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut shampoo and that weird essential oil blend she dabs behind her ears every morning.

“I fucked up,” I whisper, the words muffled against her shirt. “I fucked up so bad, Mar.”

Her hand rubs circles between my shoulder blades. “Yeah, you did. But you’ll survive this one, too.”

I pull back, wiping at the corners of my eyes with the heel of my palm. “How can you possibly know that? Everyone saw… everything.”

“Not everything,” Mara corrects, leading me toward my sofa. “Just the socially acceptable amount of skin for a professional boudoir shoot.”

She drops onto my couch, reaching for my iPad where it sits on the coffee table beneath a stack of early childhood education textbooks.

Her fingers tap against the screen with purpose, navigating to my music app with the ease of someone who knows my password and my playlists by heart.

“What are you doing?” I ask, perching on the edge of the cushion beside her.

“Emergency protocol.”

She scrolls through my playlists, then taps on the one I’d labeled “Princess Power” during a particularly low point last year.

The first notes of an unapologetically poppy female anthem fill my small living room.

I groan and roll my eyes. “Seriously? This is your solution?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love this shit,” Mara says, turning up the volume. “You made this playlist for exactly these moments. And don’t think I didn’t notice you had it on repeat after Drew sent that video of him and that bartender.”

The memory makes me wince, but she’s right. There’s something about these ridiculous, empowering songs that never fails to lift me, even when I’m drowning in my own mess.

“Fine,” I concede, reaching for the smoothie. “But I’m still screwed. Those photos are out there forever now. The entire company has seen me… like that.”

Mara takes a long sip of her drink, watching me over the rim of her cup. “And?”

“And I have to face them all. Today. Including Oleg Pavlov, who specifically requested I come to his office for a ‘Code Red’ meeting.” My voice breaks on the last word. “I’m going to get fired in the most humiliating way possible.”

Taylor Swift pounds through my small apartment, but instead of lifting me up, each note just hammers home what an epic disaster I’ve created.

“It’s bad enough that I did the ultimate stupid work fuckup and hit Send All on a private email.” I stare hopelessly into my smoothie’s pink depths. “But God—what the hell was going through my mind when I had those photos taken in the first place?”

Mara sips her drink, one eyebrow raised. “They’re actually really good photos. Like, professionally done. Tasteful, even. I’d bang, is what I’m saying. Plus, didn’t you say it was to make your sister happy? That’s actually noble, Sutt.”

“That’s not the point.” I set my cup down with a hard thunk, sticky droplets flying onto my coffee table. “I did it to cheer up Sydney, yes, but… it’s just another example of the Palmer women making dumb, impulsive decisions to fix short-term problems instead of thinking things through.”

“What do you mean?”

I pull my knees to my chest, making myself smaller. “The women in my family—me, my sister, my mom; hell, probably my grandmother and great-grandmother and all the way back to some dumb Palmer cavewoman—we have this pattern. When trouble shows up, especially trouble involving men, we do something dramatic that feels good in the moment but makes everything worse.”

Mara’s eyes soften. “Like what?”

“Like…” I exhale, a memory bubbling up from somewhere I try to keep locked away. “When I was eleven, my mom caught one of her boyfriends cheating with not one, but two of her fellow dancers at Harvey’s Strip on the Strip.”

“Damn,” Mara whispers. “Brutal.”

“Yeah. So did she confront him? Pack up and leave? Move on with her life?” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Nope. She stole his Ferrari, took a joyride through the city, then left it—keys inside—in Vegas’s worst neighborhood.”

“She did not.”

“Oh, she did. Then she videoed it being stolen and posted it online.” I rub my forehead, feeling the phantom headache from that chaotic week. “Sydney and I had to move for the fifth time in two years. We spent months lying low from the cops, the gang who got caught stealing the car, and the boyfriend—who, ironically, Syd and I had actually kinda liked.”

The music switches to a new track, something with a driving beat and lyrics about rising from the ashes.

I reach for the remote and turn it down.

I don’t need to be consoled right now.

I need to be rendered unconscious.

“And Sydney isn’t any better,” I continue, my throat tightening. “The only reason she’s with a rich asshole like Paul Lipovsky is because she became a professional escort at eighteen.”

Mara’s eyes widen. She sets her smoothie down, giving me her full attention.

“She couldn’t make enough money with a ‘straight’ job to get custody of me.” Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I was fifteen, stuck in this awful foster home with five other kids and foster parents who viewed us as walking paychecks.”

“I didn’t know you were in foster care.”

“The state took us when I was nine and Syd was twelve. Our mom…” I swallow hard. “She’d leave us alone for months at a time. Chasing men, chasing dreams, chasing whatever felt good in the moment.” The old ache spreads through my chest. “We saw her a few times after, but she never wanted—or was able—to take us back. To give us what we needed.” I wipe at a tear that escapes down my cheek. “But Sydney always cared. She did what she thought she had to do. And I feel like I’ll never be able to pay her back for that.”

Mara reaches across the couch, squeezing my hand. “So the photos…”

“Last week, every instinct I had screamed that no good would come from taking those photos.” I shake my head. “But then Sydney looked at me with those big, innocent eyes and begged. And I caved—like I always do.”

I grab my phone, pulling up Sydney’s latest message. “So now, I’m paying the price while Syd’s back in Vegas with a new diamond bracelet and a gift card for La Perla.” I hand the phone to Mara.

On the screen, Sydney’s message glows:

Success! He loved the photos. Lookie what I got.

Below it are pictures of a glittering diamond choker and a La Perla shopping bag.

“See?” I croak. “She got exactly what she wanted. Meanwhile, I’m going to get fired in—” I glance at the clock. “—two hours and forty-five minutes.”

Mara hands back my phone, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“What else could a ‘Code Red’ meeting with the CEO mean after I accidentally sent him softcore porn of myself, on top of already giving him a private peepshow?”

“Maybe he thought you were hot?”

I throw a small decorative pillow at her. “Not helping!”

“Sorry,” she says, not looking sorry at all. “But seriously, Sutton. You’re not your mom, and you’re not your sister. This sucks, but even if it all goes tits up, it’s just a job. There are other daycares. Other opportunities.”

“This wasn’t just a job to me. It was my stepping stone.” I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “And I blew it because I can’t say no to my sister, because I feel like I owe her everything.”

“You don’t owe anyone your self-respect.”

I lower my hands, staring at her. “That’s… actually pretty wise, Mar.”

She shrugs. “I have my moments. Now, finish your smoothie and get dressed. If you’re gonna get fired by a hot Russian billionaire, you might as well look good doing it.”

I snort despite myself. “He’s not Russian. He was born here. His parents were Russian.” Then I blush. “… Not that I was researching or anything.”

“Your secret stalkerishness is safe with me. Now, seriously, drink up. We need to find you something to wear that says, ‘I’m professional but also not ashamed of my body even though I accidentally showed it to the entire company.’”

Maybe I don’t have princess power, but I’ve got Mara.

And right now, that feels like the next best thing.

We go diving in my closet. Well, Mara does. I sit on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate my life choices.

Meanwhile, Mara’s flipping through my clothes like she’s searching for hidden treasure, tossing rejects on top of me.

“Too casual… Too tight… Too ‘I’m about to get fired so I dressed for my funeral’…”

Eventually, I move to my vanity and start nervously applying mascara, trying not to stab myself in the eye. My hands won’t stop shaking. The clock on my nightstand keeps ticking forward, each minute bringing me closer to what feels an awful lot like my execution.

“What about this?” Mara holds up a navy blue sheath dress I forgot I owned. “Professional, but it shows you have a shape without screaming about it.”

“Sure. Fine.”

I can’t bring myself to care. Whatever I wear, Oleg Pavlov is still going to fire me.

So what does the firing outfit matter?

I’ll probably burn it afterward anyway.

I’m halfway done with my makeup when my phone vibrates on the dresser, the screen lighting up with a new email notification. My stomach drops, fear climbing up my throat.

“It’s from him,” I whisper, fingers hovering over the screen. “Oleg.”

Mara freezes, the dress still dangling from her hand. “Well? What are you waiting for? Open it!”

I take a deep breath and tap the notification.

The email loads, its sender name glaring at me in bold: Oleg Pavlov, CEO.

“He’s probably canceling the meeting.” My voice sounds small, distant. “Like, ‘Don’t bother coming in; just mail back your keycard and pick up your final check from security.’”

I scan the first lines, already mapping out how many dirty martinis it will take to thoroughly drown my sorrows.

But then my brain catches up with my eyes.

I read it again.

And again.

My jaw literally drops open. I must look like one of those cartoon characters who’s just been hit with a frying pan.

“What?” Mara tosses the dress onto the bed and rushes over. “Is it bad? Is he making you do the walk of shame through the entire office?”

I can’t find words.

I simply hand her the phone.

“He’s not firing me,” I finally manage, my voice one notch above a whisper. “He’s… offering me a new position. He wants to meet tomorrow morning instead.”

Mara scans the email, her eyes widening. “Holy shit, Sutton!”

I grab the phone back, reading it once more to make sure I’m not hallucinating:

Ms. Palmer,

Upon further consideration, I believe our scheduled meeting today would be better postponed until tomorrow morning at 9 AM.

I have a proposal regarding a different position within Pavlov Industries that may better suit your… unique qualifications.

My assistant will email you the details.

Do not be late.

Oleg Pavlov

Chief Executive Officer

Pavlov Industries

“What the hell does ‘unique qualifications’ mean?” I ask, heat filling my cheeks. “Is that code for ‘nice rack’?”

Mara snatches the phone back, re-reading. “I don’t know, but it sure as hell beats ‘clean out your desk.’”

I stand up, pacing the small area between my bed and vanity. “This doesn’t make sense. What kind of position could he possibly think I’m qualified for? Professional juice-spiller? Company exhibitionist? Naked sushi platter?”

“Maybe he wants you to be his personal assistant,” Mara offers, sitting beside me. “You know, bring him coffee, take notes, occasionally pose in lingerie…”

“Stop it!” I grab a pillow and smack her arm with it. “This is serious. What am I going to do?”

“Um, go to the meeting? See what he’s offering?” Mara says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I groan. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

The navy dress catches my eye, draped across my comforter.

Tomorrow. I have until tomorrow to figure out what this means.

To prepare.

To breathe.

One more day before I walk into Oleg’s office and ask him which position he wants me in.