Page 129 of Dirty Damage

“I would have liked to meet Oriana,” I say softly, trying to hold onto this rare moment of connection.

Her eyes snap back to mine. “What purpose would that have served? This isn’t even a real marriage. It’s all a sham.”

The words smack me right across the face.

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. “There may be otherfactorsin our relationship, but I still care about his life, his family. We’re… friends.”

She laughs, a brittle, patronizing sound. “That’s optimistic, but misguided. Why don’t you just stick to the job you were hired for?”

I’m tempted to tell her exactly how much her son is enjoying me in my position, but there’s no point antagonizing the dragon when I’m still in the firing range.

I slide her plate across the counter to her, a peace offering she doesn’t deserve. “Salad’s ready.”

She eyes it like I’ve served her live insects. Instead of picking up her fork, she pulls out a suede-wrapped tablet. “We should discuss the wedding. Marilyn and I have come up with a few themes we think will work…”

What follows is a death march through slide after slide of wedding plans. Everything from flowers to the seven-course menu has been decided…

… without a single word of input from the actual bride.

When she gets to the floral arrangements, I clear my throat. “What role do I have in the planning?”

She looks at me over the top of her tablet, lip curled. “We already have a caterer, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

So much for my peace offering.

Shots: fired.

“You’re as aware of the terms of my contract with your son as I am.” My tone is icy, and I do nothing to hide it. I may look likea doormat to her, but I don’t intend to be used like one. “I’m the bride. Shouldn’t I get a say in my own wedding?”

“If Oleg had wanted you to have a say, he would have told you to plan the wedding. But he entrusted that task tome.”

“Yes, but?—”

“Event planning is a delicate business, Sutton. Wedding planning is a completely different beast. Our family has standards we need to uphold.” She scans my body with a pinched look on her face. “Appearances are important.”

“I understand that, but it will be my family, too. I don’t think choosing a wedding color will disgrace your?—”

“You don’t understand Bratva traditions, and you certainly don’t understand Pavlov family traditions,” she snaps. “Oleg has apparently been too busy with other parts of the contract to explain any of this to you, but wedding planning is my job.”

The knife in my back twists deeper—because she’s right.

Oleg hasn’t explained anything. Hasn’t mentioned wedding planning or family traditions or any of it.

We spend time together. We talk. Hell, sometimes, I even fool myself into thinking we’re getting closer.

But he’s just humoring me. Giving me just enough rope to hang myself with, but never enough to actually bridge the gap between us.

“Here.” Oksana reaches into her Birkin bag and pulls out a small, velvet box. “This is for you. It belonged to Oleg’s grandmother.”

My stomach drops as the lid lifts, revealing a diamond ring in a vintage setting. It’s gorgeous, but all I see is another prop in thiselaborate play we’re putting on. All I can see are the generations of Pavlov women who must’ve worn this ring. Who belonged in this family.

Not women who signed contracts and played pretend.

“You want me to wear it?”

“You need an engagement ring.” I don’t miss the way she doesn’t answer the question. “I never liked the setting, anyway. Try it on to see if I need to make it larger.”

I don’t have to try it on.

---