Page 32 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Two new emails light up the screen.
Subject:Women in Sports Gala – Proposal Inquiry
From: Silas Whitmore
Subject:Westchester Project – Event Planning
From: Maximilian Thorne
I blink. Then reread them.
They’re short, professional. Complimentary. Both referrals from Sebastian.
My heart stutters.
I scroll down through each message, looking for some kind of personal note. There isn’t one. Just timelines, project scopes, and praise for the work I did on the Wolfe launch.
I should be flattered. Grateful, even.
Instead, all I feel is disoriented.
I sit there for a full minute, debating. Then I open a new message.
Gen: I appreciate the referrals. It means a lot to have your endorsement. Thank you again—for everything.
I can see the message marked as read after ninety seconds. But no response comes.
I’m not sure what stings more—the fact that he recommended me without saying a word, or that he clearly can’t even be bothered to respond to a simple message.
Fine. I open my calendar and accept both meetings.
If Sebastian Wolfe wants me gone, fine. But he’ll still have to watch me win.
Chapter9
Gen
If someone had asked me a week ago whether I’d ever be attracted to a man colder than a marble countertop, I would have said no. With confidence. And possibly laughter.
Now? I’m not so sure.
Because Maximilian Thorne doesn’t just exude control—heiscontrol. Polished suit. Pale gray shirt. No tie. A watch I’m pretty sure costs more than my car. His movements are minimal, his posture perfect, and his stare?
Glacier-blue and absolutely terrifying.
And somehow, I can’t stop reacting to him.
The Thorne Holdings lobby is all glass and stone and silence, the kind of place where you feel underdressed no matter what you’re wearing. I wore my best blazer, tailored pants, a soft silk top. Professional. Polished. Crisp without trying too hard.
I still feel like I’m sweating through the lining.
The elevator opens onto the top floor, and I’m escorted down a long hallway by a woman whose heels don’t make a single sound on the floor. It defies physics and it bothers me way more than it probably should. She offers no introduction when she opens the door and ushers me inside.
It’s a corner office with floor-to-ceiling glass, a live-edge walnut desk, and a man who doesn’t bother to rise when I enter. But his attention is on me.
His eyes are cool and unreadable, cataloging every detail of me as I cross the room.
I’ve never been more aware of my heels. Or my pulse.
