Dirty Damage: Chapter 5

Night splays across the water like spilled ink as I push the engine into higher gear.

The speedboat—my latest acquisition—responds with a silky growl that vibrates through the steering wheel and into my bones.

Wind tears at my hair; salt spray mists my face.

This is freedom.

This is clarity.

This is what I need after that clusterfuck of a day.

I know Boris’s little dinner party on The Anastasia is in full swing now. Champagne flowing, ass-kissing abundant.

Mother’s probably there, too, strategically placing pressure on board members who might be persuaded to my side.

I could’ve attended. Should’ve, maybe.

But the water calls me. Always has.

No matter how much it’s taken from me, it always wants more.

The speedboat slices through the darkness, its hull kissing each wave before launching into momentary flight. I push it harder, testing its limits, testing mine.

The ocean doesn’t give a shit about family politics or corporate maneuvering. Out here, there’s only action and consequence.

Two hours pass in a blur of speed and spray. My mind works through contingencies, strategies. By the time I point the bow back toward the boatyard, I’ve mapped out my next moves.

The lights of Palm Beach glitter in the distance as I ease the boat into its slip, tying her off with practiced efficiency.

My shoulders finally relax. The beast inside me settles, momentarily sated by velocity and salt air.

That peace evaporates like morning dew when I round the corner of the storage facility heading toward my car.

Two shadows. Moving with purpose.

Too purposeful.

They’re hunched near the entrance to dry dock six, one working at the padlock while the other keeps watch.

My blood goes from cool to boiling in the span of a heartbeat.

I step silently across the concrete, years of training taking over. It’s child’s play to sneak up on them from behind.

The lookout spots me too late—his eyes widen just as my fist connects with his jaw. Something cracks. Several somethings, actually.

Then he crumples, legs folding like wet cardboard.

His partner spins, a blade flashing in the security lights. Amateur.

I grab his wrist, twist until the knife clatters to the ground, then drive my knee into his solar plexus. The air leaves his lungs in a wheezy gasp.

“Who sent you?” I growl, twisting his arm behind his back.

He whimpers something unintelligible. Pathetic.

I drag him by his collar toward the security booth, leaving his unconscious friend face-down on the pavement. The guard on duty—Sidorov—jumps to attention when he sees me coming.

“Mr. Pavlov! I was just⁠—”

“Sleeping?” I suggest, my voice dropping to a dangerous snarl. “Jerking off? Because you sure as fuck weren’t watching the monitors.”

Sidorov’s face drains of color. He stammers excuses I don’t bother processing as I shove my captive into a chair.

“Two men breaking into dry dock six,” I say, each word precise as a scalpel. “Where we’re keeping the prototype. And you. Didn’t. Notice.”

The guard’s Adam’s apple bobs frantically.

“Check the yard,” I order. “His friend’s taking a nap by the northeast entrance. And call the police. After you’re done with that, clean out your locker and get the fuck off my property.”

I pull out my phone and dial as Sidorov scrambles to follow orders.

“Artem,” I bark at my best friend when he picks up on the first ring, “we have a problem at the boatyard. Two uninvited guests. I need you to find out who they work for.”

The thief in the chair whimpers again as blood trickles from his split lip.

“On it,” is all Artem says.

I end the call and stare down at the poor bastard caught in my crosshairs. “You picked the wrong fucking yard to rob.”

Then I get to work on him.

I drive home with my knuckles still throbbing. Blood—none of it mine—dries under my fingernails. The speedometer creeps past ninety as I carve through the night in my Porsche.

The two would-be thieves didn’t have much to tell me after all, but Artem will get answers.

He always does.

The adrenaline keeps my mind sharp. By the time I pull into my driveway, I’ve outlined a battle plan for the next six months: secure independent funding for the cloaking system; restructure the development team; lock down a pipeline for military contracts.

Uncle Boris can sip champagne on The Anastasia while I build an empire.

Morning finds me showered and suited, striding into Pavlov headquarters at 7:15. My executive assistant, Irina, materializes at my side with coffee and a look that makes me pause mid-step.

“What?” I demand.

She thrusts a stack of message slips into my free hand. “You’ll want to see these before your 8 A.M., sir.”

I scan the first three notes—all from board members, all referencing something about “inappropriate content” and “company-wide embarrassment.” The fourth is a handwritten memo in my uncle’s spidery print: Handle this scandal immediately, or I will. The Pavlov name cannot be associated with such filth.

What the fuck?

“There’s also thirty-seven emails and seventeen Slack messages, all about the same thing,” Tanya says, following me into my office. “Someone posted… explicit content… to the employee group chat. HR’s in crisis mode.”

I drop into my chair and pull up my company email. The subject lines scream at me:

INAPPROPRIATE CONTENT TO ALL STAFF

URGENT: COMPANY POLICY VIOLATION

RE: EMPLOYEE DISCIPLINE ACTION REQUIRED

Christ. There are days when I’d trade all my billions to not be the fucking boss.

I click the first email, fingers already poised to draft a response to HR: Fire her. No comp package, no reference, don’t let the door hit her skanky ass on the way out.

But then the photos load—and my hands freeze.

It’s her.

The daycare teacher. Princess dress girl. The one with the juice all over her chest and defiance in her eyes.

Only now, she’s sprawled across crimson sheets in black lace struggling to contain curves that could make a priest question his vows. Her blonde hair spills over bare shoulders, her lips parted in an expression that hovers between innocence and invitation.

“Inappropriate” doesn’t begin to cover it.

My cock stiffens instantly beneath my desk. I scroll through the images.

There’s nothing amateur about these—they’re professional boudoir shots that capture every soft curve, every sultry glance.

In one, she gazes over her shoulder, the arch of her spine begging to be touched.

In another, she’s laughing, uninhibited and radiant.

The photos aren’t cheap or trashy. They’re intimate. Artistic, even.

They reveal a woman who’s a fucking force of nature when she’s not hiding behind baggy clothes and paper towels.

I close the email, thoughts shorting out. I grab my phone and dial a number I rarely use before 9 A.M.

“Mr. Pavlov!” my personal attorney stutters when he answers. “A bit early for legal emergencies, even for you, isn’t it?”

“I need you to draft something,” I tell him, swiveling to face the ocean view. “A special employment contract. Confidential. My eyes only.”

The attorney sighs. “For?”

I smile, remembering my mother’s proposition from yesterday. Marry the first woman you see. Just get her contracted and get her pregnant.

“You’re gonna want to write this down.”