Page 36 of Dirty Damage

Is it possible Oleg was fucking with me? That he recorded our entire conversation on that yacht and released it to the company chat?

Look everyone—here’s our resident company slut. Not only does she wear tiny princess costumes and flash her tits to the world, she accepts shady marriage contracts in exchange for cash.

“What is it?” My voice comes out like a whisper. “Just tell me.”

“It’s Monica Leong.”

“Scottie’s mother?”

The phone crackles as Mara exhales. “She had a complete meltdown in the chat this morning. She’s saying your behavior wasn’t just inappropriate—it was dangerous.”

“‘Dangerous’?” The word feels like acid in my mouth.

“She’s being a total fucking Karen. Claiming you should be barred from working with children altogether.”

I shoot up from the bed, contract pages scattering across my Target clearance comforter. “She can’t be serious.”

“That bitch has a permanent stick up her ass. She’s always serious, and she’s already posted your boudoir photos all over social media with this epic manifesto about ethics and professionalism and accountability.”

“Oh, God…” The room starts to spin. “If everyone at work didn’t see the pictures before HR removed them, they will now.”

She winces. “Not just people at work, Sut…”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“Her post is public, babe. It’s got your full name… and your phone number.”

To punctuate her point, my phone buzzes again.

More messages.

More missed calls.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes. “But you’ve gone viral.”

11

SUTTON

My phone buzzes on the bed like an angry wasp, each new message a sharp sting.

UNKNOWN:Hey baby doll, I liked your pictures. Do you have an onlyfans?

UNKNOWN:Damn gurl, you sexy. Imma be wanking to your pics aaaall night long.

UNKNOWN:I got a boat and a water bed. Give me an hour and I’ll rock your fucking world and destroy your pussy. For tits like yours, I’ll even pay.

The messages keep coming, an avalanche of digital harassment that threatens to bury me alive.

Mara suggested I block them all, but that’s like trying to stop a flood with a paper towel. For every number I block, three more pop up to take its place.

I power my phone down, savoring three minutes of blissful silence before my laptop starts screaming at me.

It’s an incoming FaceTime call.

When I answer, my sister’s face fills the screen, painted with enough makeup to supply a Broadway show. It’s not even dinnertime in Vegas, but she’s already got her war paint on.

“I didn’t know you had it in you, little sis!” I think she winks at me, but it’s hard to tell with how much eyeliner she’s wearing.

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