Page 34 of Dirty Damage

“Wait! I left my car keys in?—”

I jog into the street to flag down the driver, but he’s already turning the corner.

I drag a hand down my face. “It’s not like I have a job to get to in the morning, anyway.”

The million-dollar contract in my hand suddenly feels heavier. I tuck it under my arm and drag myself up three flights of stairs.

The lock on my door sticks, like it’s giving me one last chance to run away and join the circus instead of considering Oleg Pavlov’s insane proposition.

But the circus probably doesn’t offer dental.

I shoulder my way inside and the wall of humid air hits me like a slap in the face. The age-old Palm Beach dilemma—run the A/C and price yourself out of your apartment, or save on electricity and slowly dissolve into a puddle of sweat.

Today’s forecast: partly cloudy with a 100% chance of mold.

I kick the door closed, shuffle through the darkness, and flop onto my bed.

My phone is buzzing in my front pocket—has been for the entire drive back from that fever dream of an “interview.”

I ignore it. Turns out, I’m not in the headspace to talk to people.

Especially since the last person I spoke to asked to rent out my uterus.

“For one million dollars,” I whisper to myself, like saying the number out loud might normalize it.

Nope.

Not normal.

Still batshit insane.

I pull out the contract, forcing myself to read every line. Every clause. Every carefully crafted word designed to bind me to Oleg Pavlov and his empire.

It’s formal. Filled with legal terms I don’t understand and a ton of rules and clauses I have to reread several times.

But at the end of the hour, I have a working understanding of what Oleg Pavlov wants from me.

A baby.

Marriage, too, though that’s more for legitimacy.

In the same world where he needs to “produce an heir,” he also has to make sure that heir isn’t an illegitimate love child.

… minus the love.

Per the contract, I’d be moved to the digs of my choosing, where a full staff would be at my beck and call.

I’d receive a monthly stipend for my expenses—money for air conditioning, praise be.

And all of that is in addition to the onemilliondollars he’s dangling in front of me.

“Sounds like happily-ever-after,” I mutter.

Syd and I sat in foster homes and shelters, daydreaming about the lives we’d lead one day. She wanted a gold-plated mansion, and I talked about ponies and soft-serve ice cream machines.

Now, I could make that happen.

I could get her away from Paul—lure her out with homemade waffle cones and a jacuzzi tub. After everything she’s done for me, I owe her.

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