Page 72 of Dirty Damage

Uri is waiting with the silver Maybach when I get downstairs. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me.

“Where to, Ms. Sutton?”

“Pavlov Industries.” I slide into the backseat, my dress riding up just enough to make me feel dangerous. “And don’t warn him we’re coming.”

I didn’t get any warning, so why should he?

“There’s a camera in the backseat, ma’am.” Uri clears his throat, sounding guilty. “Just so you’re aware. The footage streams to Mr. Pavlov’s phone.”

Oh, that’s right—because he’s a billionaire and the whole world, myself included, is under his thumb. How could I forget?

I locate the tiny lens and give it my middle finger. “How’s that for a preview?”

Uri’s laugh turns into a cough as he pulls away from the curb.

The drive feels endless, each mile cranking my anger higher. By the time we reach the Pavlov Industries skyscraper, I’m ready to commit murder.

Prison sounds preferable to this arrangement with Oleg.

I’ve walked the halls of Pavlov Industries before, but today is different. Whispers and stares follow everywhere I go.

Everyone knows who I am now. The naughty employee who seduced the big, bad boss.

I hold my head high, channeling my inner Sydney. She’d strut through here like she owned the place.

The executive floor is a shrine to masculine power, all dark wood and leather. Oleg’s assistants swarm me like well-dressed mosquitoes.

“Ms. Sutton, would you like some water?”

“Can I get you some coffee?”

“Mr. Pavlov is on a very important call?—”

I sweep past them like they’re invisible. The towering double doors to his office don’t intimidate me. Not today.

He’s sitting by the window in a leather wingback chair. Our eyes meet in the reflection and something hot and electric crackles between us.

He says something in rapid French—which would normally make my knees weak—then removes his earpiece and ends his call.

“Sutton.” His gaze travels down my body like he’s undressing me with his eyes. Like he has the right after the way he had me bared before him and still walked away.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about the engagement announcement?” I demand. “My phone is exploding. My friends and family want answers.”

He leans back, completely unfazed. “What you tell them is entirely up to you. As long as you stay within the terms of our contract.”

“Translation: tell them anything except the truth!”

The truth being that this is all fake.

That I’m just a womb with a view.

That he hasn’t touched me in three days despite our agreement.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He gestures to a chair like I’m here for a job interview.

I resist the urge to flip him off again. “I’m fine right here.”

He rises slowly, as calm as I am outraged. “There’s no need to be upset. The response is exactly what we want. Any publicity is good publicity. And you look lovely in the picture.”

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