Page 8 of Dirty Damage

The whole photo shoot had been Syd’s idea, of course. She’d shown up at my hotel room last Wednesday, mascara smeared down her cheeks, clutching her phone like she wanted to crush it.

“He called me fat,” she’d spat, pacing the ugly carpet. “Twice! Because I ordered dessert at dinner. In front of his friends!”

Lipovsky.

That walking shit stain.

I’ve hated him since the moment Sydney introduced us three years ago. He’s twice her age with ten times the ego and half the conscience.

Casino owner, and he never lets you forget it. Expensive, shiny suits. Eyes that never quite make it up to your face when he talks to you. Talksatyou, rather.

“Leave him, Syd,” I’d begged for the thousandth time. “You don’t need this. You don’t need him.”

But Sydney’s face had hardened in that way I know too well—the same look she wore when she was eight and I was four and she’d promised we wouldn’t be separated in foster care if Mama didn’t come home that night.

Determination like concrete. We Palmer women have that in spades.

No good luck, no good sense—but stubbornness? Oh, hell yeah.

We’re as stubborn as the day is long.

“I’m going to show that mofo exactly what he’d be missing,” she’d declared instead, already tapping at her phone. “Starlight Photography does boudoir sessions. We’re both going.”

“‘We’? As in me, too? No way.”

“Yes way. Sister solidarity. Besides—” Her voice had softened, vulnerability peeking through—”I need you there. Please?”

And like always, I’d caved.

Because it’s Sydney.

Because she raised me when no one else could or would.

Because saying no to her feels like betraying the only person who’s never abandoned me.

So we’d spent three hours in a photography studio off the Strip, pouting and posing while Sydney knocked back champagne and I tried to channel confidence I absolutely do not possess.

Looking at the photos now, I don’t recognize myself. The woman on my screen looks bold, sensual, unafraid. It’s a costume every bit as fake as that Belle dress, but somehow, more convincing.

What was I thinking? These aren’t me. I’m the invisible daycare worker who wears shapeless clothes and hides in bathroom stalls.

But for Sydney…

For Sydney, I’d wear my heart outside my body if she asked me to.

My break’s almost over. I set my phone on the sink and splash cold water on my face. It’s time to get back to what matters.

No more Pavlov, no more princess dresses, no more photos today. Just finger-painting with the two-year-olds.

I can handle that much, at least.

But before I go, I take one last look at the screen. My thumb hovers over the delete button, trembling slightly.

Delete them. Just do it.

But Sydney’s face flashes through my mind—how excited she was during the shoot, laughing as she posed, momentarily free from Paul’s critical gaze. Her eyes lit up when the photographer showed us the preview shots.

“We look like goddamn movie stars,” she’d whispered, squeezing my arm.

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