Page 162 of Dirty Damage

I reach for my discarded jacket, pulling out the Tiffany box I’d planned to present with more ceremony.

But fuck ceremony.

This isn’t about romance.

It’s about setting things right.

I snap open the box, revealing the eight-carat blue diamond. “I think it’s time we renegotiated terms.”

She stiffens in my arms. “What do you mean?”

“This arrangement between us has… evolved. The old terms don’t fit anymore.” I take the ring out, letting the box fall aside. “You’re not my employee, Sutton. You’re my partner.”

She stares down at the ring. “Oleg…”

“The old ring was never right. My mother gave it to you; it doesn’t fit. This one…” I slide it onto her finger. “This one is you. Rare. Valuable. Strong enough to cut through anything.”

“It’s too much.”

“It’s exactly enough.” I close my hand over hers. “New terms. Equal partners. No more hiding behind that fucking contract.”

She examines the ring, tilting it to catch the light. “And if I can’t give you what you want?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that everything I want is right here in this tub.

This is all I’ll ever need.

Instead, I turn her around to face me, sending waves of water sloshing out onto the tiled floor. “Since meeting you, I think about the future in a new way. I have hope, Sutton. Hope that things will work out.”

Her eyes are watery as she blinks up at me. “Do you mean that?”

“Every word.” I nod. “I want you to have hope, too.”

She bites her lip. “I don’t know if I can. It’s never come easily to me.”

I hook a finger under her chin and draw her a little closer to me. “Then I guess I’ll have to find a way to change that.”

47

SUTTON

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?—”

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