Page 44 of Dirty Damage

“Everything you need is on that phone,” Uri informs me.

Unless it includes my dignity, I seriously doubt that.

He helps me out of the car and leads me to an elevator. The doors slide open with a soft ding and take us directly to Oleg’s foyer, which looks more like a hotel suite than a home.

A giant painted urn perches on a pedestal of veined marble, making me feel like I’ve stumbled into a museum after hours.

The theme his decorator went with, apparently, waswhite.

For variety, she went with pops of bright color in shades like off-white, kinda-white, and sorta-still-white.

Then, just to mix it up even further, she sprinkled in variations of white that rich people probably have fancy names for, like “winter whisper” and “cloud’s breath.”

“I’ll have your…thingsbrought up for you.” Uri hesitates over the word, like my single overstuffed duffel bag hardly counts. “The boss insists you make yourself at home.”

It sounds vaguely menacing when he says it.

Make yourself at home… or else.

I scan the endless expanse of pristine surfaces and razor-sharp edges. “Does he actually live here?”

“Of course.”

“It’s just…” My eyes drift over the soaring floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of the Intracoastal, the undoubtedly expensive furniture pieces that look like they’ve never known human contact. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

“The boss likes things?—”

“Sterile? Soul-crushing? Utterly devoid of any trace whatsoever of personality?”

His lips twitch, creasing his weathered face despite his obvious attempt to maintain stoic professionalism.

“Simple,” he says. “The boss likes things simple.”

“Are you his spin team?” I tease. “Try this one, a fun little fill-in-the-blank: ‘I think the Beast is terrifying and possibly a sociopath, but you’d say he’s…’”

“My boss,” he finishes with an amused bow of his head. “And I’m just the driver.”

Given that Uri is built like a nuclear bunker, I’m willing to bet my right pinkie that that’s notallhe is.

This man has snapped finger bones before without batting an eye, that's for sure.

“And if I want to leave this ivory tower, I call you?”

He nods at the phone still in my hand. “My number is programmed in.”

“Right. Everything a girl could possibly need.”

Uri takes the elevator down, and I’m alone. In Oleg Pavlov’s penthouse.

I grip the phone like a lifeline, fighting the urge to call Uri back just for company.

Instead, I force myself to explore my new gilded cage.

The foyer opens into a great room that could comfortably fit my entire old apartment. The floors are polished white marble, gleaming like freshly fallen snow under recessed lighting. A huge, L-shaped sofa in cream leather dominates one corner, facing a wall-mounted TV. The coffee table looks like it was carved from a single piece of crystal.

Everything is flawlessly arranged—not a throw pillow or remote control out of place.

The kitchen is all white lacquered cabinets and stainless steel appliances that have clearly never seen use. When I open the Sub-Zero fridge, it’s completely empty except for a few bottles of sparkling water. The wine fridge is better stocked, loaded with bottles.

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