Page 22 of Dirty Damage

I throw a small decorative pillow at her. “Not helping!”

“Sorry,” she says, not looking sorry at all. “But seriously, Sutton. You’re not your mom, and you’re not your sister. This sucks, but even if it all goes tits up, it’s just a job. There are other daycares. Other opportunities.”

“This wasn’t just a job to me. It was my stepping stone.” I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “And I blew it because I can’t say no to my sister, because I feel like I owe her everything.”

“You don’t owe anyone your self-respect.”

I lower my hands, staring at her. “That’s… actually pretty wise, Mar.”

She shrugs. “I have my moments. Now, finish your smoothie and get dressed. If you’re gonna get fired by a hot Russian billionaire, you might as well look good doing it.”

I snort despite myself. “He’s not Russian. He was born here. His parents were Russian.” Then I blush. “… Not that I was researching or anything.”

“Your secret stalkerishness is safe with me. Now, seriously, drink up. We need to find you something to wear that says, ‘I’m professional but also not ashamed of my body even though I accidentally showed it to the entire company.’”

Maybe I don’t have princess power, but I’ve got Mara.

And right now, that feels like the next best thing.

We go diving in my closet. Well, Mara does. I sit on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate my life choices.

Meanwhile, Mara’s flipping through my clothes like she’s searching for hidden treasure, tossing rejects on top of me.

“Too casual… Too tight… Too ‘I’m about to get fired so I dressed for my funeral’…”

Eventually, I move to my vanity and start nervously applying mascara, trying not to stab myself in the eye. My hands won’t stop shaking. The clock on my nightstand keeps ticking forward, each minute bringing me closer to what feels an awful lot like my execution.

“What about this?” Mara holds up a navy blue sheath dress I forgot I owned. “Professional, but it shows you have a shape without screaming about it.”

“Sure. Fine.”

I can’t bring myself to care. Whatever I wear, Oleg Pavlov is still going to fire me.

So what does the firing outfit matter?

I’ll probably burn it afterward anyway.

I’m halfway done with my makeup when my phone vibrates on the dresser, the screen lighting up with a new email notification. My stomach drops, fear climbing up my throat.

“It’s from him,” I whisper, fingers hovering over the screen. “Oleg.”

Mara freezes, the dress still dangling from her hand. “Well? What are you waiting for? Open it!”

I take a deep breath and tap the notification.

The email loads, its sender name glaring at me in bold:Oleg Pavlov, CEO.

“He’s probably canceling the meeting.” My voice sounds small, distant. “Like, ‘Don’t bother coming in; just mail back your keycard and pick up your final check from security.’”

I scan the first lines, already mapping out how many dirty martinis it will take to thoroughly drown my sorrows.

But then my brain catches up with my eyes.

I read it again.

And again.

My jaw literally drops open. I must look like one of those cartoon characters who’s just been hit with a frying pan.

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