Page 110 of Dirty Damage

I pause, then decide to go for broke. Maybe if I can’t win her over with sideboob, I can do it the old-fashioned way—through her son’s stomach.

SUTTON:Quick question. What was Oleg’s favorite meal growing up? I’d like to make him something special for dinner.

An hour passes. I start browsing Pinterest for“romantic dinners that say ‘please knock me up’”when her reply finally comes through.

OKSANA:I don’t have a clue. You’d have to talk to his nanny.

Rich people, I swear to God.

She follows with a phone number, which I now don’t have a choice about using. Oksana is going to ask Oleg about whether his peasant of a fiancée made him his favorite dish.

She may already hate me, but let her never say I lack follow-through.

I take a deep breath and dial, praying I’m not about to get myself into something I can’t handle.

Story of my life.

Mrs. Henrietta Josefs waddles out of the elevators and into Oleg’s penthouse an hour later like she’s been waiting her whole retired life for this moment. She’s wide-eyed at the luxury and the high ceilings, but then she sees me and beams.

“I saw the announcement in the paper, but real life is even better. Ollie chose such a lovely young woman!”

Her voice is warm honey and chocolate chip cookies, like a fairy godmother who traded her wand for a Le Creuset Dutch oven. She pulls me into a soft hug and I understand all at once why Oleg isn’t the same kind of soulless elite his mother is.

It’s because of this woman.

But another part of me is still stuck on the reveal that the Beast of Palm Beach, terror of the boardroom and yacht clubs alike, was once calledOllie.

Actual tears brim in her eyes when she pulls back, admiring me again. “I’m so happy you called.”

She barely even knows who I am, but I can tell she means it.

I grin shyly. “I’m glad I wasn’t bothering you.”

She looks horrified at even the suggestion and bustles into the kitchen. She may be old, but she’s fast. I’m huffing trying to keep up with her as she fishes ingredients out of her tote bag and gets to work.

“I called for help with the pelmeni, but this is all a ruse to find out whatOlliewas like as a kid,” I explain.

I immediately cringe like he can hear me.

Yeah, no. I’ll never be calling him that again.

“So sweet! So caring!” She measures flour with the precision of a pharmacist, and I bite back a laugh. “Let’s see… What was he like? He took such great care of his sister. He was so protective of—” Her voice cracks and she hides it by clearing her throat. “—Oriana.”

Her hands, so sure a second ago, tremble as she reaches for a measuring cup. No part of me wants to laugh at that.

“Mrs. Josefs…”

“Nanna. Call me Nanna. The children always did.” She dabs at her eyes with her apron. “Oh, look at me. Haven’t even been here ten minutes and I’m blubbering. You must think I’m a silly old woman.”

“No, you’re not. You loved the children you took care of. That’s beautiful.”

She squeezes my hand with flour-dusted fingers. “I retired when Ollie and Oriana were twelve. They didn’t really need meanymore. But I always kept in touch with the family. When I heard about Miss Oriana…” She chokes on the words.

I want to know everything. But the grief in her eyes stops me.

I’m not going to press on old wounds just to satisfy my own curiosity.

So I change the subject again. “Thank you for coming to help me, Nanna. I couldn’t be more grateful.”

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