Page 71 of Dirty Damage

I stare at my phone screen, my breakfast forgotten and growing soggy in its bowl.

The deepfaked photo looks so real it makes my stomach turn.

There we are—Oleg and me—looking like we just stepped out of some glossy magazine spread. He’s in a tailored suit, and I’m in a silky dress that clings perfectly to every… well, notmycurves.

The body pressed against Oleg is tight and trim in all the places I’m not, and somehow, that pain lances through the shock of seeing a ring on my finger big enough to double as the anchor for the yacht we’re on.

Apparently, Oleg and I are engaged.

First I’m hearing about it.

My sister’s face fills my screen, her FaceTime call catching me with my mouth hanging open.

“You sneaky bitch!” she squeals. “When were you planning to tell me?”

“I…”

Words fail me. What am I supposed to say?

That this is all fake?

That the man in the photo hasn’t touched me in three days?

That I’m living in his luxury condo like some kind of kept woman, except without the “keeping” part?

The fact is, I wasn’t planning to tell Sydney anything. Not until I had the money secured to get her out of Vegas or Dubai or wherever the fuck she is and away from Paul.

Looks like I don’t get a choice in that now.

“Oh my God, look at you, playing innocent.” Sydney’s perfectly made-up face beams at me through the screen. The bruises from her sugar daddy are almost completely covered today. “Seriously, though—Oleg fucking Pavlov? You hit the motherlode, sis. Is his dick as big as his bank account?”

Hell if I know!The reality that I’m engaged to Oleg and I haven’t seen more than the outline of his dick through his pants is the final nail in the coffin.

My stomach churns. “Sydney, I can’t talk right?—”

“No way! You haven’t told me anything yet. How did he propose? When’s the wedding? Does this mean you’ll stop lecturing me about Paul?”

I end the call mid-sentence, mainly because I don’t want to explain to Sydney the many ways that Oleg is not my sugar daddy.

This is a business arrangement. We signed a contract.

A contract he might as well have spit on when he had that article published without so much as a warning.

The silence in the condo feels oppressive now, pressing down on me from all sides.

Three nights.Three fucking nightshe’s been ghosting me, and now, this?

I text Uri to bring the car around, then storm into my bedroom. Most of my clothes look like they belong to a Catholic school dropout, but there’s one dress that’ll work for what I have in mind—a rose pink linen number Mara forced me to buy months ago.

No man is going to pay attention if you dress like a teenage boy, she’d said.

Well, I need Oleg’s attention now.

The dress hugs my curves in a way that walks the line between classy and sinful. I add some wedge platforms and just enough makeup to emphasize my eyes and lips.

My reflection stares back at me, transformed from heartbroken hermit to someone who could maybe pass for a billionaire’s fiancée.

Hopefully.

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