Page 26 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

She draws an idle circle on my skin. “I like stone. Solid. Unshakeable.”

My heart thuds—slow, steady, no hint of that post-MI flutter that used to kick when stress hit. Fascinating. I allow myselfthe indulgence of stroking her hair, letting the soft strands slip through my fingers.

“Tabitha,” I say after a long beat, “I wasn’t on autopilot last night. You were…a surprise.”

She glances up. “Good surprise?”

“Very.” I clear my throat. “And I’m not easily surprised.”

A soft knock interrupts the cozy hush—Dante’s rhythmic rat-tat-tat. “Breakfast in ten,” he calls through the door. “Chef wants to know if our princess prefers croissants or waffles.”

Tabitha giggles. “Both.”

I shake my head, amused. “He’ll bring both, you know.”

She stretches, sheet slipping enough to reveal the camisole’s slack neckline, then heads to my bedroom’s bathroom. “Good. I worked up an appetite last night.”

Once she’s ensconced, I pad to the window. Trees in all directions this far out from the city. Chilly temperatures have left a cool mist in the air, gray on green leaves. I test my pulse—steady. For the first time in months, I feel…refreshed.

Maybe that’s the real gift this month will bring. Not scandal management, not a distraction from bored socialites, but a brief reprieve from the weight I’ve carried too long. She calls me “safe.” If anyone else said it, I’d think it an insult. But from her, it feels like an honor.

I chuckle under my breath at the irony, grab a fresh T-shirt, and head for the door. Breakfast, then a briefing with my executive assistant, then fittings for the winter show. December doesn’t slow down for introspection.

It should. It’s the perfect time for deep thoughts.

As I glance back at the bathroom doorway—Tabitha humming some off-key pop song while she washes her face—I recognize that my morning pattern has already shifted.

And for once, I’m not inclined to fix it.

13

TABITHA

The tripto Villa Moretti is long. It’s on the outskirts of town, in the country, according to Dante. He really is the chatty one of the three. As Nico drives, Dante narrates. “…and that’s where Sal skinned his knee when he was…how old were you, seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Sixteen,” Sal says, rolling his eyes. “And I can’t believe you remember that. You were an infant.”

“I was nine, thank you very much, and seeing your big brother come down the driveway with his kneecap sticking out of his skin sticks with a guy.”

I clutch at my stomach, feeling sick. “Oh my god, really?”

But Sal shakes his head. “It wasn’t that bad?—”

“You had three surgeries,” Nico interjects. “It was pretty bad.”

Sal shrugs and stares out the window. “Could have been my head that hit that rock instead of my knee, so I’ll take it.”

“Sheesh,” I mutter. “What were you doing for that to happen?”

Sal gets a little glimmer of a smirk. “I was under the mistaken impression that I was invincible and that every bike is great for doing stunts. As it turned out, I was wrong.”

“Thank goodness you were wearing a helmet.”

He snorts a laugh. “No, I wasn’t. It’s dumb luck that I survived.”

“Hopefully, that kind of dumb luck is contagious,” I say, trying not to think of my sister.

Last week, I was calculating whether I could afford the generic-brand ramen. Today, I roll up on a mansion that looks like an expensive Italian hotel, surrounded by tall trees and flowerbeds gone dormant for the winter. A servant in white gloves and a formal black uniform unloads my duffel like it’s precious cargo.

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