Page 3 of Dirty Damage

Faster.

We’re lost in our royal spinning when disaster strikes. On one wild revolution, my elbow catches the edge of the tea set.

There’s a suspended moment—juice boxes airborne, crackers floating like confetti—before gravity takes over.

I lunge to catch Chloe as she falls, and we go down together in a sticky, crumb-covered heap.

Apple juice drenches us both, though I’ve taken the brunt of it. It soaks through the yellow costume and plasters my hair to my face.

Chloe’s more startled than hurt, but her birthday dress is a casualty.

Mara appears above us, hand covering her mouth. For a second, I think she’s concerned—but then a snort escapes.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Your face!”

“Hilarious,” I mutter, peeling a soggy cracker off my arm. “Really, truly stellar.”

She helps us up, still fighting giggles. “I’ve got the accident clothes tote somewhere…” She rummages through a cabinet and produces a canvas bag. “Take Chloe to the gym showers in theeast wing. No one uses them this time of day. I’ll clean up this masterpiece.”

“Did I call you an angel earlier? I meant ‘saint.’”

“Music to my ears,” she replies with a wink. “Now, scram, before someone important comes knocking.”

I wrap a clean towel around Chloe, grab the clothes bag, and we make our escape.

The halls are mercifully empty as we squelch our way to the east wing corporate gym. It’s one of those bougie setups with marble counters and fancy showers—perks for the executives who actually make decent money at Pavlov Industries.

The women’s locker room is empty, thank god. I get Chloe into a shower stall and help her wash the juice from her hair, and then wrap her in one of the plush gym towels.

“Your turn,” she says, pointing at my sticky costume.

Right. My turn.

I look down and grimace. I look like I just went ten rounds with the Kool-Aid Man.

“Stay right there,” I tell her. “Pretend you’re a statue!”

I step into a bathroom stall, close the door, and try to shimmy out of the dress.

Key word: “try.” Because it does not go well.

Not at all.

The polyester is practically melted to my skin, and they might’ve accidentally mixed some cement into this juice, because it’s sticky everywhere I touch. I grab the zipper and?—

No. Please, no.

It’s stuck. The cheap metal teeth are snagged on a fold of fabric, and no amount of twisting or contorting helps. This thing has me trapped in polyester hell. No amount of yoga could save me.

“Chloe, honey? Can you try to help with the zipper?”

I open the door and turn my back toward her. Tiny fingers fumble with it for a few minutes before she declares, “It’s stuck real bad.”

Great.

Peachy.

Wonderful stuff here.

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