Page 64 of Dirty Damage

And according to the contract I signed, I might’ve signed myself up for kids—multiple.

I can handle being their fun daycare provider for a few hours every day, but being the person there when they’re sick or scared of the dark or screaming because you gave them the purple cup instead of the blue one?

I could use some practice.

Especially since I’m not sure the Beast has much experience with?—

“UNCA OLEG!”

The shriek pierces the relative calm we’ve established. Both kids launch themselves at the doorway, where Oleg looms like a dark cloud at a picnic.

But the second the kids are in his arms, he spins them in a circle, making them giggle.

Then his gaze finds mine.

And the warmth I just witnessed vanishes like it never existed.

His eyes sweep over the chaos we’ve created—scattered toys, pizza stains, empty juice boxes—and then back to me.

His cold assessment has me feeling like an intruder, so I’m grateful when Artem bursts in.

“Pizza?” He holds a floppy slice out to Oleg.

“Not for me.” Oleg tears his gaze from mine to focus on his friend. “We need to talk. It’s important.”

He doesn’t even look at me as he turns away. Artem follows, throwing apologetic glances over his shoulder.

“This will take a while,” Artem adds in a quiet voice to Faye. He presses a kiss to the top of his children’s heads. “Better get the kids home.”

I stare at the door even after Oleg is gone, searching for any sign of the Unca Oleg the kids love so much, for any sign of the man who built this playroom.

Faye heaves herself up and pats my shoulder. “You’ll get used to this.”

Used to what?

The whiplash between the man who spins laughing children and the one who can’t even acknowledge my existence?

How he maintains a joy-filled playroom but keeps his own emotions locked away?

I should ask what she means.

But I’m afraid I already know.

I watch them leave, taking their warmth and chaos with them, leaving me alone in a room full of evidence that Oleg Pavlov has a heart.

I just don’t know if he’ll ever let me near it.

18

OLEG

The marble conference table stretches between us like a funeral slab, and my mother sits at the other end, a Chanel-clad vulture waiting to pick apart whatever dares land in front of her.

Today, it’s my future on the menu.

I turn to Candace. The family publicist’s fingers hover over her MacBook, ready to spin whatever I feed her into a digestible headline for the masses.

“We’re here today to talk about my engagement.”

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