Page 20 of Dirty Damage

My heart thuds against my ribs as I check the peephole for the third time in as many minutes.

This time, it’s occupied.

The hallway’s mottled beige carpet and flickering overhead light frame Mara’s distorted face as she scrunches her features into a grotesque mask, tongue sticking out at an impossible angle.

Despite everything, a tiny laugh bubbles up in my throat.

I unlock the door with trembling fingers, the metal cool against my clammy skin. The deadbolt slides back with a heavy thunk that seems too final, too permanent for a Tuesday morning that started like any other before transforming into this waking nightmare.

“Hey, disaster girl.”

Mara pushes past me, two giant smoothies from Juice Junction clutched in her hands. The familiar logo—a cartoon orange with sunglasses—mocks me with its cheerfulness.

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

The nickname fits too well today.

Mara sets the drinks on my cluttered kitchen counter and turns to face me. Her eyes—sharp and knowing—scan me from head to toe, taking in my unwashed hair, the oversized Pavlov Industries t-shirt I sleep in, and the dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

“C’mere,” she commands, opening her arms.

I hesitate for half a second before collapsing into her embrace.

She’s small—five-foot-nothing on a good day—but her hug envelops me completely, steady and grounding. I press my face into her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut shampoo and that weird essential oil blend she dabs behind her ears every morning.

“I fucked up,” I whisper, the words muffled against her shirt. “I fucked up so bad, Mar.”

Her hand rubs circles between my shoulder blades. “Yeah, you did. But you’ll survive this one, too.”

I pull back, wiping at the corners of my eyes with the heel of my palm. “How can you possibly know that? Everyone saw… everything.”

“Noteverything,” Mara corrects, leading me toward my sofa. “Just the socially acceptable amount of skin for a professional boudoir shoot.”

She drops onto my couch, reaching for my iPad where it sits on the coffee table beneath a stack of early childhood education textbooks.

Her fingers tap against the screen with purpose, navigating to my music app with the ease of someone who knows my password and my playlists by heart.

“What are you doing?” I ask, perching on the edge of the cushion beside her.

“Emergency protocol.”

She scrolls through my playlists, then taps on the one I’d labeled “Princess Power” during a particularly low point last year.

The first notes of an unapologetically poppy female anthem fill my small living room.

I groan and roll my eyes. “Seriously? This is your solution?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love this shit,” Mara says, turning up the volume. “You made this playlist for exactly these moments. And don’t think I didn’t notice you had it on repeat after Drew sent that video of him and that bartender.”

The memory makes me wince, but she’s right. There’s something about these ridiculous, empowering songs that never fails to lift me, even when I’m drowning in my own mess.

“Fine,” I concede, reaching for the smoothie. “But I’m still screwed. Those photos are out there forever now. The entire company has seen me… likethat.”

Mara takes a long sip of her drink, watching me over the rim of her cup. “And?”

“And I have to face them all. Today. Including Oleg Pavlov, who specifically requested I come to his office for a ‘Code Red’ meeting.” My voice breaks on the last word. “I’m going to get fired in the most humiliating way possible.”

Taylor Swift pounds through my small apartment, but instead of lifting me up, each note just hammers home what an epic disaster I’ve created.

---