Page 72 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Her.
The word lingers longer than it should, souring in the back of my throat.
Another voice chimes in, this one older, lined with a smugness only decades of casual misogyny can produce,"Barely out of college, isn’t she? Got to hand it to them. Good taste."
A laugh follows, a low lascivious chuckle."Rich men always find something sweeter when the vintage gets stale."
The conversation drifts away on the next swell of music, but the damage is done. I know this world. I know the men in this room—their appetites, their entitlement, the way they view women as nothing more than acquisitions to be flaunted and discarded when the novelty wears off. Hell, I’m one of them. But something about it sticks with me and I start searching harder.
The whispers continue around me, growing in volume as I pass. Some are masked as concern. Others laced with admiration. Plenty are too crass to disguise at all.
"Christ, I wish I could pull something like that off. What a prize."
The comments scrape raw against my nerves, each one stoking the fire already catching under my skin.
The voices keep following.
"Wonder if they’ll fight over her or just take turns."
"Bet she’s loving it. Wouldn’t you?"
A hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me mid-stride.
"Sebastian Wolfe," a voice drawls, thick with false warmth. "Didn't expect to see you mingling tonight. Thought you'd be too busy running half the world."
I turn, forcing my mouth into something that could pass as a smile. Carter Langston. A relic from an older generation of wealth, more veneer than substance, the kind of man who mistakes predatory leering for charm.
I offer a clipped nod and a tight greeting, nothing more. He launches into a monologue anyway, oblivious to—or simply indifferent about—my disinterest. Something about a new investment opportunity in the Maldives. A partnership he’s cobbled together from desperation and declining assets.
I don’t respond. I don't even pretend to care. My attention keeps drifting, pulled back by the low hum of scandal threading through the crowd.
Another chuckle floats past.
"Silas has no shame. And Max? Never figured him for the type, but maybe he’s finally learning to loosen up."
"Or maybe he just likes the competition. Can't blame them. Girl's a thoroughbred."
My jaw clenches, my molars grinding. Every instinct tells me to walk away from Carter, to ignore the pointless conversation unraveling in front of me, but years of survival among these circles has hardwired certain courtesies into my bones. Courtesies that are rapidly eroding.
Carter keeps talking, oblivious.
"Anyway, I'd be happy to send over some renderings," he says, patting his jacket pocket like he's got the plans tucked away for just this occasion. "Could even arrange a private tour. I know you like your properties exclusive. Secluded."
I cut him off before he can embarrass himself further. “Send it to my assistant and my team will take a look.”
A flicker of offense crosses his face, quickly smoothed into another oily smile. He opens his mouth to push again, but I step past him, not bothering with an excuse. If he has half the instincts he claims to, he’ll take the hint and find someone else to harass.
I need air. Focus. Something to clear the static buzzing under my skin. I need to find Silas and Max. Now.
My stride lengthens, cutting through the crowd with increasing ruthlessness. I don’t bother smoothing my expression anymore. If anyone reads the cold calculation in my face and decides to get out of my way, all the better.
I’m close. I can feel it.
"Think she's actually into it? Or just playing smart?"
"Does it even matter? If she’s in their beds, she’s not complaining."
I can feel the attention shifting now, the way the energy in the room angles toward one unseen point, the way people instinctively gather around spectacle before they even understand what they’re witnessing.
