Page 7 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
“I hate everything.”
“You love this. Don’t lie. This is your moment.”
I press the phone to my chest and stare at the ceiling.
It doesn’t feel real. But it is. It’s happening.
God help me.
* * *
The island is everything the brochure said and so much more.
It’s not just luxury—it’s curated, sculpted to perfection in a way that feels effortless, but I know it required hundreds of people and millions, if not billions, of dollars to achieve. Every palm tree leans with editorial precision. Every stone pathway glistens like it’s been polished by hand. The air even smells expensive, filled with salt and citrus and the faintest whisper of sandalwood.
And it looks even better than it did when I came here with Sebastian for the short walkthrough trip. Which went…fine.
I didn’t smack into anyone’s chest. I didn’t spill coffee on a $10,000 suit. I didn’t accidentally project any underwear photos onto a wall-sized screen.
I did, however, mistake a garden path for an exit and walked directly into a waist-high hedge.
Also, there may have been a minor collision with an actual brick wall when I wasabsolutely notstaring at Sebastian Wolfe’s retreating form as he led me through the west villa corridor. My knee still throbs. No witnesses—except the surveillance cameras I’m pretending don’t exist.
I’ve managed to hold it together since then. Barely. The event is tomorrow, and the pressure is mounting like a goddamn soufflé in a hurricane. I’ve had to meet with Sebastian three times already this week. Each time, he was punctual, stone-faced, and somehow dressed like a spread in GQ. Each time, I left the interaction flustered, defensive, and—if I’m being honest—just a little breathless.
He’s infuriating. And immaculate. And always there.
Which brings us to tonight.
The night before the launch event. The night I was supposed to be finalizing logistics and getting some much-needed rest. Instead, I’ve been playing an emotionally exhausting game of billionaire hide-and-seek. Except he’s not hiding.
He’severywhere.
Checking the lighting rig on the pool deck. Testing the acoustics near the cabanas. Watching me adjust floral arrangements like I might snap a stem wrong and single-handedly tank his brand.
I swear he’s doing it on purpose.
Each time I turn around—boom. There he is. Folded arms. Crisp shirt. Unreadable expression. Unholy cheekbones.
I’m trying to focus, trying to stay in the zone. There’s a champagne tower that still needs stabilizing, a lighting cue that hasn’t been tested, and a chandelier that got delayed in customs and is now being helicoptered in tomorrow at dawn.
My clipboard is my lifeline. My earpiece is crackling. My body is so tight I might break.
And worst of all?
I forgot the charger for my vibrator.
Which means there is no healthy, nighttime stress release in my immediate future. Not unless I want to try and MacGyver a wire out of a bedside lamp and accidentally electrocute myself. Which, frankly, would at least get me off this island and away fromhim.
I mean, Icoulduse my fingers…but that just doesn’t give the same O.
I might be a virgin, but I know what I like.
I take a deep breath and pivot away from the staff entrance, trying to remind myself that this is still a huge opportunity. That I am a professional. That I donotneed to make any more humiliating memories involving Sebastian Wolfe and my overactive nervous system.
And that’s when I round a corner and nearly walk into him. Again.
Of course.
