Dirty Damage: Chapter 37

My fertility app depicts day two of my period as a blooming flower. Some graphic designer somewhere tried hard to make me feel happy about menstruation, but nothing in the world could make me feel happy about it today.

Mostly because Oksana Pavlov is on her way to join me for lunch.

Not that I invited her. An hour ago, my mother-in-law sent me a text informing me she’d be coming over for lunch, which means the last fifty-nine minutes have been a mad dash of cleaning, finding something semi-suitable to wear, and cursing the heavens that any of it is necessary in the first place.

With one minute to spare, I’m sweaty and cramping and realizing that this woman isn’t just some rich bitch with a superiority complex.

She’s Oleg’s mother. The only real grandmother my future children will ever have, thanks to my own sad excuse for a mom.

I don’t need to impress her for my own sake, but if I want my kids to have anything remotely close to the family unit I never had, I need her to like me.

Or, at the very least, not mind being in my presence for a few hours at a time.

The bar I’ve set for myself is actually in hell, but we might be digging a tunnel underneath it today.

I’m even more certain when the elevators ding open and Oksana struts in like a five-foot-nine Prada mannequin come to life.

She slips out of her nude-colored trench coat without slowing her pace, revealing a sleeveless ivory dress underneath. Emeralds dangle from her ears like tiny trust funds.

“Hello, Oksana,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.

Her gaze slithers down my body like a snake looking for the perfect place to strike. “I should’ve given you more warning to get ready.”

The condescension in her voice could strip paint.

“Oh no, this is actually my best white t-shirt.” I laugh, but she doesn’t join me. If she did, her stony expression might crack right in half. I wave towards the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I made pasta.”

That gets a reaction out of her. Her fine-plucked eyebrows climb towards her silky hairline. “You cooked?”

“I did.”

I think the woman would be less surprised if I took flight while singing show tunes. “You could have ordered something.”

“There’s nothing like a home-cooked meal, though.” Not that she would know. Nanna was the only one doing any home-cooking in her house.

“I haven’t eaten pasta in eighteen years.”

“Good God,” I blurt. “What’s the point of living?”

Her nose twitches. Her head tilts.

For a moment, I think I might have actually amused her.

But then her face smooths back into its usual mask of disdain. “Perhaps you can order me a salad.”

I consider caving. Oleg has a stack of fancy menus in the kitchen. I’m sure one of them has a fifty-dollar bowl of lettuce I could have express-delivered up to the penthouse, but fuck that.

The second I start dancing to her tune is the second I lose whatever scraps of respect she might have for me.

I turn towards the kitchen, waving her on. “No need. I can whip something up for you.”

There are a few seconds of silence before her heels clop hesitantly across the floor. She surveys Oleg’s kitchen like she’s inspecting it for health code violations.

When I gesture to one of the bar stools at the center island, she perches on it as if she’s afraid it might be contagious.

I don’t think this woman has ever set foot in a kitchen before. Her house probably has secret hallways for all of her staff to scurry around like mole people—employed, but never seen.

I move around the kitchen pulling out ingredients—fresh greens, tomatoes, cucumber, mustard for the vinaigrette. The silence lengthens until she finally breaks it, the words coming out like they’re against her will.

“You… like… to cook?”

I start chopping vegetables with precise movements. “My sister and I were in foster care and it was a lot of frozen dinners. I guess it made me appreciate good food.”

Her perfect posture stiffens even further. “How many foster homes have you and your sister lived in?”

“Four.” I keep my voice neutral, refusing to let her see how much these memories still sting. “Until my sister aged out and petitioned for guardianship. Then I moved into her apartment.”

“Your sister took all of that on at such a young age?”

She almost sounds impressed, so I leave out the part about Sydney’s forty-three-year-old sugar daddy who came with the apartment. “She was—is—a great big sister. She always took care of me.”

Oksana sighs. “That’s the kind of sibling Oleg was, too.”

The vulnerability in her voice catches me off-guard. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that underneath all the Prada armor and attitude, she’s a mother.

A mother who lost her child.

“I would have liked to meet Oriana,” I say softly, trying to hold onto this rare moment of connection.

Her eyes snap back to mine. “What purpose would that have served? This isn’t even a real marriage. It’s all a sham.”

The words smack me right across the face.

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. “There may be other factors in our relationship, but I still care about his life, his family. We’re… friends.”

She laughs, a brittle, patronizing sound. “That’s optimistic, but misguided. Why don’t you just stick to the job you were hired for?”

I’m tempted to tell her exactly how much her son is enjoying me in my position, but there’s no point antagonizing the dragon when I’m still in the firing range.

I slide her plate across the counter to her, a peace offering she doesn’t deserve. “Salad’s ready.”

She eyes it like I’ve served her live insects. Instead of picking up her fork, she pulls out a suede-wrapped tablet. “We should discuss the wedding. Marilyn and I have come up with a few themes we think will work…”

What follows is a death march through slide after slide of wedding plans. Everything from flowers to the seven-course menu has been decided…

… without a single word of input from the actual bride.

When she gets to the floral arrangements, I clear my throat. “What role do I have in the planning?”

She looks at me over the top of her tablet, lip curled. “We already have a caterer, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

So much for my peace offering.

Shots: fired.

“You’re as aware of the terms of my contract with your son as I am.” My tone is icy, and I do nothing to hide it. I may look like a doormat to her, but I don’t intend to be used like one. “I’m the bride. Shouldn’t I get a say in my own wedding?”

“If Oleg had wanted you to have a say, he would have told you to plan the wedding. But he entrusted that task to me.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“Event planning is a delicate business, Sutton. Wedding planning is a completely different beast. Our family has standards we need to uphold.” She scans my body with a pinched look on her face. “Appearances are important.”

“I understand that, but it will be my family, too. I don’t think choosing a wedding color will disgrace your⁠—”

“You don’t understand Bratva traditions, and you certainly don’t understand Pavlov family traditions,” she snaps. “Oleg has apparently been too busy with other parts of the contract to explain any of this to you, but wedding planning is my job.”

The knife in my back twists deeper—because she’s right.

Oleg hasn’t explained anything. Hasn’t mentioned wedding planning or family traditions or any of it.

We spend time together. We talk. Hell, sometimes, I even fool myself into thinking we’re getting closer.

But he’s just humoring me. Giving me just enough rope to hang myself with, but never enough to actually bridge the gap between us.

“Here.” Oksana reaches into her Birkin bag and pulls out a small, velvet box. “This is for you. It belonged to Oleg’s grandmother.”

My stomach drops as the lid lifts, revealing a diamond ring in a vintage setting. It’s gorgeous, but all I see is another prop in this elaborate play we’re putting on. All I can see are the generations of Pavlov women who must’ve worn this ring. Who belonged in this family.

Not women who signed contracts and played pretend.

“You want me to wear it?”

“You need an engagement ring.” I don’t miss the way she doesn’t answer the question. “I never liked the setting, anyway. Try it on to see if I need to make it larger.”

I don’t have to try it on.

I already know it won’t fit.

None of this fits.

I shouldn’t be receiving an engagement ring from my mother-in-law. Oleg should have been the one to give it to me.

But there’s a reason he hasn’t. No sense risking the chance of having me think that we’re more than just a contract couple.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” The box snaps shut with a finality that echoes in my chest. “You’ll have to excuse me.” I push back from the counter, my legs unsteady. “I’m tired, so I think I’ll go⁠—”

“Are you pregnant?” Her eyes flash to my stomach, and I see the disgust there. The horror that I might be carrying her grandchild already.

I wish I could tell her I was. I wish I could spit it at her feet along with this ring.

But I simply shake my head.

“Unfortunately, no. I know you already think I’m a poor return on investment, but even Pavlovs can’t fight nature.”

I walk to the stove, mechanical movements keeping me upright as I spoon pasta into a dish.

“Lunch is ready if you want it. I made salmon and gremolata as well. Oleg mentioned you enjoyed fish. If not, just leave everything—I’ll clean it up later.”

I’m halfway to escape when her voice stops me, suddenly soft. “You made all this yourself?”

“Yes!” I snap, whirling around, all hope of impressing her dead and buried. “I cook and I clean and I wear t-shirts when I’m eating in my own home. What the hell do you have to say about it?”

Something passes over her face—surprise maybe, or something deeper I’m too exhausted to decode.

She stands slowly, taking her back with her. “Thank you, Sutton.” Her eyes meet mine and hold. “For your time.”

I nod and drag myself back to my bedroom. Minutes pass before my head stops pounding, but the ache in my chest persists.

I feel hollowed out. Used. Shut out.

But isn’t this exactly what I signed up for?

The family ring sits heavy in my palm—a perfect symbol of everything wrong with this arrangement.

Every time I think I’m getting closer to Oleg, something happens to remind me this is all just business.

The ring catches the light, mocking me with its beauty and history. A history that isn’t mine to claim, no matter what papers I’ve signed.

Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.