Page 53 of Dirty Damage

I groan and toss my phone aside. Not the distraction I was hoping for.

A buzz cuts through the quiet, and I practically leap for it.

Only, it’s notmyphone buzzing. It’s the black phone Uri gave me earlier.

BOSS:Come to my room.

Uri must’ve programmed Oleg’s number into my phone as well. I’ll be changing his name real fast.

Still, something hot and lightning fast zings through me—anxiety? Anticipation?

It’s late. For all he knows, I could be asleep already. I could ignore it, pretend I never saw it.

Except, how the fuck am I supposed to sleep knowing Oleg is a couple rooms away, waiting for me?Expectingme?

Playing hard to get isn’t in the Palmer playbook.

SUTTON:It’s late.

BOSS:And yet you’re still awake.

A second ago, I was ready to jump Oleg’s bones. Now, my hands are shaking as I stare at those five dangerous words.

I signed a contract agreeing to have this man’s baby, but I didn’t exactly think through the mechanics. My brain short-circuited at the number of zeros on that check—at the simple fact that Oleg fucking Pavlovchoseme.

He gave me three days to think it over. Then my boudoir photos went viral and torpedoed any chance I had at employment that doesn’t involve a stripper pole.

Oleg became my only option.

My last resort.

If it was just me, maybe I’d have considered bouncing between women’s shelters before selling my soul to the devil.

But Sydney’s bruised face flashes through my mind, those dark circles under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights and worse things.

My phone vibrates again.

BOSS:There’s more we need to talk about.

Right. Because when a man summons you to his bedroom at midnight, “talking” is definitely what he has in mind.

I’m no better.

It’s the last thing on mine, too.

I drag myself to the full-length mirror in the corner, gathering the extra fabric of my pajamas in my hand. Not even a fairy godmother could turn these circus tent PJs into something sexy.

Fuck it.

I strip them off until I’m standing in nothing but a scrap of pink lace that barely covers my butt. I could waste time digging through my duffel, but I know what’s in there: more shapeless clothes meant to hide me from the world. Additional fabric that will only get in the way.

Because Oleg doesn’t want to talk.

And you know what?

Neither do I.

I pull on a white camisole that rides high on my waist and let my hair tumble free from its messy bun. One last look in the mirror confirms what I already know—I look exactly like what I am.

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