Page 155 of Dirty Damage

And there’s Drew’s cherry Mustang parked in the driveway, next to a black sedan with custom plates.

I rewind the footage, pulse thundering in my ears as I watch Drew emerge from his car.

The sedan doors open a beat later. The men who step out of it aren’t anyone I recognize, but something about them makes my skin crawl.

This isn’t just Drew being Drew.

This is something else.

Something worse.

I save the footage and slam my car into drive, tires squealing as I peel out of the parking lot. I should go straight to Oleg. That’s what a good fiancée would do. What a trustworthy person would do.

But the fragile trust we’ve built over the past few days feels so delicate, like blown glass—beautiful but liable to shatter at the slightest touch.

If I tell him about Drew, I’ll have to tell him everything.

The burner phone. Sydney. Paul.

All of it.

So instead of heading home to Oleg, I point my car toward Artem and Faye’s place, praying I’m making the right choice.

Artem is in the front yard when I pull up, looking like some suburban dad fantasy in cargo shorts and a sweaty t-shirt.

“Hey, you,” he says, eyebrows lifting. “Were we expecting you?”

“Sorry.” I cringe, already regretting this. “Surprise visit.” I glance around for tiny humans. “Where are the little ones?”

“With their grandparents. Hence the unusual quiet.” He gestures toward the house as Faye emerges carrying a tray. “We were just about to have lunch. You want to join?”

“Oh, God, no, I don’t want to impose. This’ll be quick.”

Faye sets down a pitcher of lemonade and what looks like grown-up sandwiches—the kind without crusts cut off. There’s an ice-cold beer for Artem, too.

“Everything okay, Sutton? You look rattled.” Artem pulls up a third chair while something sharp and hollow pierces my chest.

Will I ever have this? This slice of suburban paradise with its manicured lawn and matching patio furniture?

Will Oleg and I ever lounge in our garden on child-free afternoons?

Willallour afternoons be child-free if I can’t get pregnant?

Will there even be an “us” without a baby?

I don’t plan on sitting, but my knees give out and I sink into the chair, clutching my phone in white-knuckled hands.

“Th-thanks,” I manage when Faye squeezes my shoulder. “I’m really sorry to crash your lunch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Faye scolds. “We’re here whenever you need us.”

I turn to Artem, throat tight. “I have something you need to see. I don’t know what it means or how dangerous it might be, but… I thought you should know.”

I pull up the surveillance footage and hand over my phone. Faye leans in to watch with him.

Artem’s face stays neutral—right up until the black sedan appears. Then his features harden into something that makes my stomach drop.

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare.

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