Page 169 of Dirty Damage

I was wrong.

“What happened on that boat was an accident.”

“It was carelessness,” Boris snarls. “And it cost two young women their lives. I wasn’t about to let you apply the same brand of carelessness to the company.”

“So you decided to apply your own brand of idiocy instead?” I stalk closer to his desk. “Explain the logic. How is throwing good money at the Martineks’ dead business any different from what you claim is a bad investment?”

“The Martineks represent old money, boy. Real power. Their influence extends far beyond what we can touch. I may have lost Pavlov Industries millions today, but I’ve ensured its survival tomorrow.”

“As the Martineks’ puppet?” I lean forward, hands braced on his desk. “Or does that not matter as long as you get to pretend you’re still relevant?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “The Martineks offer more than money—they offer stability. Unlike you, they aren’t vulnerable.”

“How exactly am I vulnerable?”

He emits a sharp, grating laugh. “Look no further than your own bed.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Merely an observation. You’re the one who put yourself at risk the moment you decided to stick your cock in that whore.”

One sweep of my arms sends his pretentious desk ornaments crashing to the floor.

Boris shrinks back in his chair, knuckles white on the armrests.

Good. Let him remember who he’s dealing with.

“Choose your next words carefully,” I say softly.

“Don’t blame me for this,” he mutters, eyes darting to the door. “The Martineks used the oldest trick—a pretty face and a nice rack. Or did you think Drew Anton and Sutton Palmer stumbled into your life by accident? Did you really think those little boudoir photos went to the whole company by accident?” His confidence grows as he watches my reaction. “And you—a man who prides himself on reading people—fell for it completely. Hook, line, and sinker.”

I’m silent.

He senses it and pounces.

“I had no choice but to make a deal with the Martineks to save us from embarrassment. If you want the full story, ask that pretty little fiancée of yours.” His lips curl. “While you’re at it, have a chat with her boyfriend, too.”

I study him, trying to gauge how far he’ll push this lie to destabilize me. The fucker looks downright gleeful.

“You’re lying.”

Boris’s laugh grates like broken glass. “How touching. She’s really done a number on you, hasn’t she? Such a waste of potential.”

“You’re not getting in my head, you old sack of shit.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t trust me. Understandable, given the circumstances.” He unlocks his iPad with a quick swipe. “But if you won’t trust me, trust your own eyes.”

He twists the tablet towards me just as it starts to play.

The footage is crystal-clear—Sutton in the grocery store, dressed in her usual oversized sweatshirt and jeans, blonde hair flowing down her back. She’s standing in front of the freezer section, probably debating what flavor ice cream to bring home.

A hooded figure appears behind her. Her body goes rigid, but she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t try to escape. Instead, their heads lean together in intimate conversation.

Acid burns up my throat.

I trusted her.

Boris pauses the video with a flourish, leaning forward. “Notice the timestamp in the bottom corner.”

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