Page 170 of Dirty Damage

I’ve already clocked it. Just weeks ago. Right before I took Sutton to Sardinia.

Where we spent days talking and nights fucking. Where I let myself believe my feelings for her were real. Where she encouraged me to lower my walls, inch by careful inch—and I took her up on it.

Was it all orchestrated? A calculated play to break me from the inside so the Martineks could finish what they started?

Everything slots into place with sickening clarity.

“If you need more proof—” Boris starts.

My gaze snaps to him and his mouth clamps shut. “I don’t need a fucking thing from you.”

I turn and stalk out of his office.

The ocean calls again as I stride through the building. But I’m not running. Not this time.

This time, I’ll remember exactly who I am.

The Beast of Palm Beach didn’t get his nickname by showing mercy.

50

SUTTON

It’s been a lonely few days in the apartment. Today is no exception.

With Oleg working so much, most mornings start by myself.

I’m trying this new thing where I don’t check my fertility app like a mad woman twenty times a day. They say stress doesn’t make for a conducive baby-making environment.

Well, I’m going to work to create one.

Except that somehow—and I don’t know how—my sense of calm has become intrinsically linked to Oleg’s presence.

Every time I’m around him I just feel safe.

When has that ever happened with a man?

Hell, when has that ever happened, period?

I can’t stop myself from reaching out to touch the space where he should be. But the sheets are cool to the touch. His indent is fading.

Little by little, this bed is losing its memory of him.

I’ve just changed into yoga pants and a positive attitude with vague plans of starting my morning with some sun salutations when I hear the elevator doors beep open. My heartbeat rises instantly, a flush rushing to my cheeks.

But when I race to the elevator to greet him, my smile dies.

One look at his face tells me that there will be no swoon-worthy good mornings today. There will be no blueberry scones or shared showers or tea on the balcony.

Whatever he’s bringing with him today, is going to be painful, not poetic.

“Oleg?” I squeak, staring into those dark gold eyes that are fixed on me with a scowl that I haven’t seen in a long time. “What’s wrong?”

He brushes past me without answering.

My heartbeat rises again. But this time, it’s for a whole other reason.

Feeling a bout of hyperventilation coming on, I take a deep breath and follow him into the living room.

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