Page 133 of Dirty Grovel

“Let me get this straight: You’ve been texting my psychopath ex-boyfriend who’s determined to blow up my life, and yours by association?” I ask, accusation tainting my tone despite my best efforts to play it cool.

There are tears standing sentinel in her blue eyes. “I’m sorry?—”

“I don’t want apologies, Sydney!” I cry. “I want explanations!”

“He always kept in touch with me. But the text messages amped up after Paul was… killed,” she says. “He’s scared, Sut. He’s on the run and he’s desperate and trapped. All his friends have either died on him or ghosted him.”

I can’t help but snort. “The Martineks screwed him over. Serves the bastard right.”

Sydney blinks and two fat tears roll down her cheeks. “I might have agreed with you, Sutton. The problem is, he’s determined that if he should go down, we’re going to go down with him.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“He wants certain… assurances from you,” she gulps. “He wants you to convince Oleg to grant him immunity, money, and freedom.”

“And why on earth would I do that?” I scoff.

“Because—” Sydney’s voice trembles ominously. “—otherwise, he’s going to release all the ammunition he has on us. Onbothof us.”

I thought my blood was cold before.

I was wrong.

Now, it’s ice in my veins, ice in my fingertips, ice coating every inch of me from head to toe.

“Syd…” I croak. “What does that mean?”

“Tapes, pictures, voice recordings, and text messages.” Sydney shivers. “Of my most intimate moments with Paul. And?—”

My entire body prickles with what I know is coming.

“—your most intimate moments with him.”

“No,” I whisper. “He’s bluffing. He doesn’t have shit.”

Sydney shakes her head. “He’s not bluffing, Sut. He’s been sending me copies of everything he has on us. Videos of Paul and me in the bedroom. The way he… used me. The roles I was forced to play to satisfy his fantasies. Some of it is horrible and violent to watch—and all of it is demeaning and graphic.”

She pauses, her voice thick with regret, her eyes red and puffy. She wrings her hands together as though she’s trying to make penance. “He’s sent me the tapes he made of the two of you as well. There are… several.”

I get to my feet, anger and horror coursing through me. “I can’t believe he would stoop so low.”

“He’ll make good on this threat, Sutton,” Sydney warns. “He will blow up your life if he has to. Let’s face it: If he releases those tapes, there’s no way Oleg can marry you, given the circles he travels in. You’ll be just another social climber, a grubby little skank who’s punching above her weight.”

I leap to my feet and start pacing, my head spinning as I try to figure out how best to approach this latest bit of blackmail, courtesy of my own personal demon from hell.

Curiously, I’m not feeling any real fear.

What I’m feeling isanger.

Red-hot and molten, twisting through every pore in my body, reminding me that even wannabe princesses can be made of steel.

You just have to piss them off sufficiently.

“Give me your phone,” I snarl, turning on Sydney. “I want to see what he’s told you.”

She passes it over. It’s open to her personal thread with Drew, filled with dozens of messages over the course of the last few days.

The last exchange took place mere hours before Sydney had insisted we see that dodgy studio apartment..

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