Page 65 of Dirty Damage

Her dull green eyes light up at my words like she just won the PR lottery. Engagements, weddings, babies—it’s what publicists live for.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

My mother’s blood-red nails drum against the marble, each click a little death knell for my patience. Her eyebrows—pencil-thin thanks to her surgeon’s artistic vision—arch skyward.

“This is serious enough to be made public?”

“Candace wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” I drawl.

Candace attacks her keyboard with an enthusiasm I wish was catching. But this is Oksana Pavlova I’m dealing with.

She adjusts her cream silk blouse, settles a cigarette between her lips, and strikes the lighter my father gave her on their twentieth anniversary.

The flame flickers to life and catches the cigarette.

Smoking isn’t allowed in Pavlov Industries, but the rules don’t apply if your name is on the building.

“What kind of train wreck have you shackled yourself to, son?”

Candace freezes. You’d think she’d be used to my mother’s brand of brutal honesty by now.

“Is that all the confidence you have in my choice?” I ask.

“Call it a mother’s instinct.” She takes a drag, blowing a cloud of smoke around her head. “That and the fact that you didn’t bring her to this meeting. You’re afraid to show her to me. And apparently, you need to ‘manage’ the messaging before you roll this woman out to the public.”

“She’s not the latest yacht up for offer, Maman. She’s my future wife. The future mother of my children.”

She rolls her eyes. “And what else is she, Oleg? Who is this woman and what is wrong with her?”

Plenty, I’m sure. I just haven’t known Sutton long enough to see beyond the surface.

The sight of her in nothing but her underwear has fueled my sex drive for forty-eight straight hours, she can cook a mean bowl of pasta, and she’s sweet to my niece and nephew despite me foisting them upon her without asking.

But surely, under all of that, she’s riddled with faults.

I know of one issue, at least.

“Her name is Sutton Palmer. Until recently, she was an employee at Pavlov Industries Daycare.”

The cigarette freezes halfway to my mother’s lips. “She works for you?”

“Worked,” I correct. “Past tense. She doesn’t anymore.”

“Do I dare ask why?”

She stubs out her cigarette with enough force to crack the crystal ashtray, swiveling her chair to face me fully.

“She was involved in a… situation last week. It’s why she isn’t at this meeting today. She’s lying low.”

Candace has no doubt typed Sutton’s name into her search bar and is doing a good job of hiding her shock at what she’s found.

I know the first result that pops up. I’m responsible for a third of the clicks on those photos.

The same photos are inside the file I slide across the table to my mother.

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