Page 128 of Dirty Damage

She slips out of her nude-colored trench coat without slowing her pace, revealing a sleeveless ivory dress underneath. Emeralds dangle from her ears like tiny trust funds.

“Hello, Oksana,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.

Her gaze slithers down my body like a snake looking for the perfect place to strike. “I should’ve given you more warning to get ready.”

The condescension in her voice could strip paint.

“Oh no, this is actually my best white t-shirt.” I laugh, but she doesn’t join me. If she did, her stony expression might crack right in half. I wave towards the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I made pasta.”

That gets a reaction out of her. Her fine-plucked eyebrows climb towards her silky hairline. “You cooked?”

“I did.”

I think the woman would be less surprised if I took flight while singing show tunes. “You could have ordered something.”

“There’s nothing like a home-cooked meal, though.” Not that she would know. Nanna was the only one doing any home-cooking in her house.

“I haven’t eaten pasta in eighteen years.”

“Good God,” I blurt. “What’s the point of living?”

Her nose twitches. Her head tilts.

For a moment, I think I might have actually amused her.

But then her face smooths back into its usual mask of disdain. “Perhaps you can order me a salad.”

I consider caving. Oleg has a stack of fancy menus in the kitchen. I’m sure one of them has a fifty-dollar bowl of lettuce I could have express-delivered up to the penthouse, but fuck that.

The second I start dancing to her tune is the second I lose whatever scraps of respect she might have for me.

I turn towards the kitchen, waving her on. “No need. I can whip something up for you.”

There are a few seconds of silence before her heels clop hesitantly across the floor. She surveys Oleg’s kitchen like she’s inspecting it for health code violations.

When I gesture to one of the bar stools at the center island, she perches on it as if she’s afraid it might be contagious.

I don’t think this woman has ever set foot in a kitchen before. Her house probably has secret hallways for all of her staff to scurry around like mole people—employed, but never seen.

I move around the kitchen pulling out ingredients—fresh greens, tomatoes, cucumber, mustard for the vinaigrette. The silencelengthens until she finally breaks it, the words coming out like they’re against her will.

“You… like… to cook?”

I start chopping vegetables with precise movements. “My sister and I were in foster care and it was a lot of frozen dinners. I guess it made me appreciate good food.”

Her perfect posture stiffens even further. “How many foster homes have you and your sister lived in?”

“Four.” I keep my voice neutral, refusing to let her see how much these memories still sting. “Until my sister aged out and petitioned for guardianship. Then I moved into her apartment.”

“Your sister took all of that on at such a young age?”

She almost sounds impressed, so I leave out the part about Sydney’s forty-three-year-old sugar daddy who came with the apartment. “She was—is—a great big sister. She always took care of me.”

Oksana sighs. “That’s the kind of sibling Oleg was, too.”

The vulnerability in her voice catches me off-guard. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that underneath all the Prada armor and attitude, she’s a mother.

A mother who lost her child.

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