Page 9 of Dirty Damage

For a few hours, we were just sisters again.

I pull my finger back. Sydney paid the equivalent of two weeks’ worth of my salary for these pictures. She wanted them to prove something to Paul—but maybe they’ll remind her of something more important—that she’s beautiful without his validation. That she deserves better.

Before I can overthink it, I tapForwardand type Sydney’s name. I add a quick message:

These turned out great. Miss you already. Call me when you can. xo

My finger hesitates again, but this time over “Send.” What if Paul sees them? What if he gets even more controlling, more critical?

What if these photos somehow make things worse?

But I can’t protect Sydney from everything. God knows I’ve tried.

All I can do is be there when she needs me, no matter how many miles separate us.

I hitSend.

The confirmation appears: “Link shared successfully.”

A small weight lifts from my chest. Whatever happens with these photos, at least Sydney will know I’m in her corner. At least she’ll have proof of how radiant she looked that day, laughing in the studio lights.

I tap back to my download link and delete it without further ceremony.

No need to keep them. The last thing I need is accidentally opening that folder during story time with the preschoolers.

Or worse—having them pop up if Pavlov decides to check my browsing history after our meeting tomorrow.

The thought of him seeing those photos makes my stomach lurch in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant, which is precisely why they need to go.

I’ve spent too much time around men who see vulnerability as an invitation.

I tuck my phone away and glance in the mirror before I go. It reflects someone I hardly recognize—a woman with shadows under her eyes and worry lines around her mouth.

But also someone who survived today’s princess dress debacle.

Someone who’ll survive tomorrow’s meeting with the Beast.

One crisis at a time, Palmer.

3

SUTTON

My apartment complex’s pool isn’t exactly luxurious.

The water’s over-chlorinated, the concrete deck is cracked in places that management keeps promising and failing to fix, and sometimes, the underwater lights flicker like they’re sending Morse code distress signals.

But at sunset, with the sky painting purple over orange, it feels almost peaceful.

Almost.

I slice through the tepid water, arms burning with each stroke. This is one of the few places I can think—or, more accurately,notthink. My mind empties with each lap, my cares dissolving into chlorine and sweat.

Lap seven.

Eight.

Nine.

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