Page 45 of Dirty Damage

But there’s no coffee maker or knife block. No junk drawer full of rolls of tape and stray pens.

I’m starting to wonder if Oleg is actually Patrick Bateman in disguise.

Best-case scenario, he survives on nutrients he absorbs from the air. A grocery run is on the to-do list, for sure.

But first, I need to find my room before I lose my mind in this museum of minimalism.

The back hallway reveals three doors—two standard and one double-wide with gleaming bronze handles.

I choose door number one, revealing a guest room roughly the size of Rhode Island. The bed is dressed in what I’m sure are outrageously expensive white linens. The walls are bare except for abstract art in—you guessed it—shades of white and cream.

Door number two is similar, though it faces east instead of west. Both rooms have their own marble bathrooms with rainfall showers and soaking tubs deep enough to drown in.

But it’s the double doors at the end of the hall that call to me like a siren song.

I know I shouldn’t. This has to be Oleg’s room.

But my hand is on the handle before I can stop myself.

The doors glide open on silent hinges. So easily it’s almost like a thumbs-up.

This isn’t snooping. You’re welcome here.

“He did tell me to make myself at home,” I whisper.

Then my jaw hits the floor.

This isn’t a bedroom—it’s a royal suite.

The ceiling soars at least twenty feet high, with floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped in a graceful curve. Outside, a private terrace stretches the full width of the room, bordered by Grecian columns that make me feel like I’ve stumbled onto Mount Olympus.

The bed is a California king on a raised platform, dressed in what has to be the softest-looking white bedding I’ve ever seen.

But unlike the rest of the apartment, there are actual signs of life here. A phone charges on one nightstand next to a silver-framedphotograph. A few crisp button-downs are draped over a leather bench at the foot of the bed. A book lies dogeared on the other nightstand.

I force myself to turn away from the bed before I do something stupid like bury my face in his pillows to inhale his scent.

Instead, I drift toward what I assume is the en-suite bathroom.

The door is cracked open. Yet again, fate is welcoming me inside.Come on in, Sutton—the snooping waters are fine.

The petty part of me would love to find a prescription for premature hair loss or erectile dysfunction that will make a little more sense of our match.

I find nothing of the sort.

“Now,thisis a closet.” I whistle as I play with the soft-close drawers and run my fingers along the fine fabrics hanging in rainbow order—not that Oleg’s rainbow extends far beyond black, charcoal, and business blue.

The drawers are labeled in neat handwriting: cufflinks, watches, ties. Then there’s a cabinet with no label. It’s held closed with a small brass latch.

Like everything else in this apartment, it’s practically begging me to look inside.

I shouldn’t.

I really shouldn’t.

I do.

The door swings open…

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