Page 19 of Dirty Damage

“What?” I demand.

She thrusts a stack of message slips into my free hand. “You’ll want to see these before your 8 A.M., sir.”

I scan the first three notes—all from board members, all referencing something about “inappropriate content” and “company-wide embarrassment.” The fourth is a handwritten memo in my uncle’s spidery print:Handle this scandal immediately, or I will. The Pavlov name cannot be associated with such filth.

What the fuck?

“There’s also thirty-seven emails and seventeen Slack messages, all about the same thing,” Tanya says, following me into my office. “Someone posted… explicit content… to the employee group chat. HR’s in crisis mode.”

I drop into my chair and pull up my company email. The subject lines scream at me:

INAPPROPRIATE CONTENT TO ALL STAFF

URGENT: COMPANY POLICY VIOLATION

RE: EMPLOYEE DISCIPLINE ACTION REQUIRED

Christ. There are days when I’d trade all my billions to not be the fucking boss.

I click the first email, fingers already poised to draft a response to HR:Fire her. No comp package, no reference, don’t let the door hit her skanky ass on the way out.

But then the photos load—and my hands freeze.

It’s her.

The daycare teacher. Princess dress girl. The one with the juice all over her chest and defiance in her eyes.

Only now, she’s sprawled across crimson sheets in black lace struggling to contain curves that could make a priest question his vows. Her blonde hair spills over bare shoulders, her lips parted in an expression that hovers between innocence and invitation.

“Inappropriate” doesn’t begin to cover it.

My cock stiffens instantly beneath my desk. I scroll through the images.

There’s nothing amateur about these—they’re professional boudoir shots that capture every soft curve, every sultry glance.

In one, she gazes over her shoulder, the arch of her spine begging to be touched.

In another, she’s laughing, uninhibited and radiant.

The photos aren’t cheap or trashy. They’re intimate. Artistic, even.

They reveal a woman who’s a fucking force of nature when she’s not hiding behind baggy clothes and paper towels.

I close the email, thoughts shorting out. I grab my phone and dial a number I rarely use before 9 A.M.

“Mr. Pavlov!” my personal attorney stutters when he answers. “A bit early for legal emergencies, even for you, isn’t it?”

“I need you to draft something,” I tell him, swiveling to face the ocean view. “A special employment contract. Confidential. My eyes only.”

The attorney sighs. “For?”

I smile, remembering my mother’s proposition from yesterday.Marry the first woman you see. Just get her contracted and get her pregnant.

“You’re gonna want to write this down.”

6

SUTTON

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