Page 145 of Dirty Damage

I remain at the head of the table, staring at the damning numbers still displayed on the screen.

Someone—either Boris or some poor schmuck who will be dead by the end of all of this—breached my security to access data that should have been private.

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking infuriating.

I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like wrap my hands around my uncle’s throat and squeeze until that smug smile disappears forever.

I gather my things, already mapping out my next moves, when the tap of heels on hardwood stills me. I don’t need to look up to know it’s my mother, lingering behind after the others have gone.

“That could have gone better,” she says mildly.

I snap my laptop closed with more force than necessary. “Really? I thought it went exactly according to plan. Boris’s plan.”

“Don’t be petulant.” She moves closer, lowering her voice. “If you want to play this game, you need to think three steps ahead. Boris clearly did.”

“He hacked my private servers.”

“Then perhaps your security isn’t as impressive as you claim.”

The barb strikes home, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

“Was there something specific you wanted to discuss, Mother? Or did you just come to offer unhelpful critiques?”

She studies me for a long moment, her face unreadable. Her aloofness has always been grating. The day of Oriana’s funeral, she was the picture of perfection in black Prada, a veil covering her face so no one could see she hadn’t shed a single tear.

Because nothing ever fazes Oksana Pavlov.

“How is your young lady?”

The abrupt change of subject nearly throws me. “Sutton is fine.”

“But not pregnant yet.”

And there it is. The real reason she stayed behind.

“It’s been less than six months,” I growl.

“Which means you have little time left before we need to consider other options.”

Something ugly rears up inside me at her words. “We won’t be considering anything. Sutton isn’t some disposable asset to be replaced if she doesn’t perform to specifications.”

“No?” Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. “Isn’t thatexactlywhat she is? A means to an end? Don’t tell me you’re developing feelings for the girl.”

The fact that I can’t immediately deny it pisses me off more than anything else that’s happened today.

“I know exactly what this arrangement is,” I say coldly. “And I don’t need your input on how to manage it.”

She sighs, looking genuinely disappointed. “Love is a weakness, Oleg. Your father taught you that.”

“My father is dead.”

“Yes.” The word is clipped, final. “He is.”

She turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the ghost of my father and the memory of Sutton’s smile this morning.

I need to get the fuck out of here. My phone buzzes with calendar reminders—three meetings this afternoon, including a video call with our Chinese partners.

I cancel them all with a few taps.

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