Page 142 of Dirty Damage

The proof—the contract—sits in Oleg’s safe back home, my signature at the bottom. A million dollars for my body, my compliance, my freedom.

Sure, the sex is incredible.

Sure, he can be gentle, even tender sometimes.

But at the end of the day, I signed myself over to him just like Sydney handed herself to Paul.

I was blinded by Oleg’s beauty and charm.

No, that’s not the only reason you signed the contract. You did it forher. To saveher. The way she’s always saved you.

“You say it’s complicated only because you can’t face the fact that you’re just like me, Sutton.” Sydney twists the knife. “And that kills you. You think you hide it well, but I know that following in my footsteps is your greatest fear.”

I swallow hard. “I love you, Sydney. I just want what’s best for you.”

“Maybe you should let me decide what’s best for me, huh?”

I want to tell her about the money and how I’ll be able to help her.Just give me some time, and I can get you out. We can be together.

But there are footsteps in the hallway.

I check the time. Oleg should be gone for another forty minutes, but he’s back.

There isn’t time.

“Okay,” I stammer, already moving towards the closet. “Okay, but… please stay in touch. Please don’t go quiet on me. I need to know you’re okay.”

There’s a beat that feels like an hour before she sighs. “I can do that.”

“I love you, Syd.”

The line goes dead before she says it back.

There isn’t time to dwell on it. I shove the phone back in the corner of my bag just as the door bursts open and Oleg comes in.

“I cut the workout short,” he announces to the room. “The blood was rushing to all the wrong places.”

I take a steadying breath before I walk back into the suite, the conversation with Sydney echoing in my head.

Unless you want to tell me you think Oleg Pavlov is actually in love with you?

I want to say yes.

But I’m not sure what I think anymore.

41

OLEG

The mahogany double doors to the boardroom swing open just as I’m about to click to the next slide.

I’m in the middle of a presentation I’ve been preparing for the last three months—years, actually—when my uncle’s personal chef wheels in a cart loaded with covered silver platters, followed by two servers carrying wine bottles.

“A brief lunch break,” Boris announces, spreading his arms wide and grinning. “We can’t properly evaluate such an important proposal on empty stomachs, can we?”

Bullshit.

The timing is deliberate, designed to disrupt my momentum just as I was getting to the meat of my presentation.

---