Page 36 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
"Okay. Then trust your instincts."
I hang up, stare down at my desk, and wonder why trusting myself suddenly feels harder than anything else.
I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. I tell myself I’m focused. Disciplined. That I know how to compartmentalize. But even as I open the next spreadsheet, I’m still thinking about her.
Genevieve St. Claire.
The girl who walked into my office and made me forget how to breathe for a full ten seconds.
This should be nothing. Another project. Another professional interaction.
So why do I get the sinking feeling it’s already more than that?
It shouldn’t be. Itcan’tbe.
And, not just because she’s a potential vendor. No, this girl is just that. Agirl. She’s over a decade my junior and still green in ways she probably doesn’t realize yet. Still finding her footing. And I’ve lived a whole life she hasn’t even begun to imagine. I’ve built empires, watched them burn, rebuilt better. I know what I want. What I don’t. What I can afford to let in. She doesn’t. Not really.
I shouldn’t be watching her mouth when she speaks. Shouldn’t be wondering how her skin would feel under my hands. I can remember the pitch of her voice when she promised she could deliver what I wanted—and how my brain immediately put it in the wrong context.
She’s a risk. Not the kind that can be managed. The kind that lingers. That tempts you into thinking about possibilities. I’ve spent years cutting those out of my life.
The smart thing would be to find another event planner. It doesn’t matter how good she is. I open her file again. Her preliminary pitch. Her deck. It’s solid. More than solid. It’s thoughtful, sharp, strategic. She understands vision and execution. She doesn’t just think in aesthetics—she thinks in results.
I have other things that need my attention. But my mind keeps straying back to her.
I’m thinking about the way she looked at me before she left. Curious. Cautious. Interested. I saw it. Felt it. I know chemistry when I see it, even when I wish I didn’t.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and exhale slowly.
This is a bad idea.
And I’m already too far in to walk away clean.
Chapter11
Silas
There’s a particular kind of luxury that doesn’t scream money so much as it whispers it—smooth, seductive, entirely unbothered by flash. That’s the kind of place I’m sitting in now. A rooftop bar in Midtown, tucked twelve stories above the chaos down below. It has everything you could possibly need: low lighting, leather seating, and a skyline view that people spend a lot of money for. The bourbon here is aged longer than most marriages. The clientele? Powerful. Discreet. Expensively bored.
It still feels weird being part of this crowd.
I lounge on a corner banquette, sleeves rolled, top two buttons undone, nursing a pour of my favorite bourbon. I’ve been recognized twice already—once by the hostess, who gave me the best seat without asking, and once by a hedge fund baby who tried to pitch me a crypto sponsorship for one of the youth initiatives I fund. I waved him off with a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
But I know more are coming. Two tables have already clocked me, one full of finance wives sipping gin and tonics and pretending not to look, and another with a junior associate crowd, each man trying to out-alpha the other with their drink orders. I could play along—order something obscure, flash the charm—but I’m not in the mood. Not tonight.
I know they recognize me. Most do if they look long enough. Not because I’m relevant—hell, I haven’t played in years—but because once you’ve had your face on a billboard or your stats scrolling across ESPN, people don’t forget. Not really. They just reframe you. Turn you into trivia.
This city never lets you forget what it thinks you should be impressed by. Money. Power. The perfect highlight reel. And some nights, I wonder if I’ve started to buy into it too.
Max is late. Not that I’m surprised. The man treats punctuality like a religion when it comes to business, but casually discards it in social settings. Which says a lot, considering how rarely he agrees to drinks at all. If I hadn’t mentioned Genevieve St. Claire, he probably would’ve canceled.
Still, if he flakes, I’ll consider it a declaration of war.
I take a slow sip, let the bourbon burn its way down, and tilt my head toward the breeze. I should probably be prepping for tomorrow’s walkthrough with Genevieve St. Claire. Instead, I’m imagining what she’ll look like in person—if the woman Sebastian recommended is as compelling as the proposal she sent over. Something tells me she is.
Max finally arrives ten minutes past the hour, looking every inch the boardroom predator. Rolled sleeves, pressed slacks, that air of silent judgment that’s made a dozen grown men stammer through acquisition pitches. No tie, naturally. His version of dressing down is still expensive enough to bankrupt a small country, though.
He slides into the seat across from me and says nothing.
