Page 54 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Out loud, I say, “Thank you for telling me.” And I mean it. Vulnerability is hard currency, and she’s trusting me with hers.

To pivot, I tap the half-shut laptop. “Would shadowing a launch shoot take your mind off mortgages for an hour?”

She perks up a little. “I thought a launch shoot would be under Dante’s department.”

“Officially. But if we waited for Dante to finish a content brief, the internet would be obsolete.” I stand, offering a hand. “Come rescue corporate social media from mediocrity, consultant.”

She slides her fingers into mine with a shy smile. “Lead the way, CFO.”

The content studio occupies an old sound stage near our headquarters. Inside, floodlights balance against snowy skylights, and a quartet of Gen-Z dancers in branded puffer jackets warms up to synth-pop. My videographer, Costas—manbun, circular glasses, eternal coffee mug—waves an iPad like a traffic baton.

“Boss! We still need a hook beat between the product hero shot and the finale. Dante said,‘Spice it up’and then he disappeared.”

Typical.

Tabitha surveys the C-stands and lens cases with cautious excitement. Costas claps headphones over one ear and cues the music. The dancers leap into the routine. Four counts of shoulder pop, spin, cross-step, phone-camera frame to reveal our Auralinebank travel bag. Technically fine—emotionally beige.

It just doesn’t hit.

Tabitha tilts her head, mouthing counts. I notice she adds a subtle hip roll on beat seven—tiny, perfect.

I tap Costas’s sleeve. “Pause.”

Music dies. Dancers pant. I gesture to Tabitha. “You see something?”

She flushes. “It’s good. But the cross-step muddies the logo reveal. If they angle the hip, and swipe up instead of down, the bag’s emblem lines up with the lens. You can see here?” She points to the replay. Sure enough, she’s right.

Dance consultant, indeed.

Costas arches a brow, impressed. “You dance?”

“She dances, choreographs, she can do anything.” Pride coats every word. I turn to her. “Can you show them how?”

Tabitha blinks. “I thought you brought me here for a distraction. I didn’t plan anything.”

“That’s what makes it good,” Costas says, feeling her out. “We need raw, not polished.”

She’s uncertain until the dancers circle her, questions coming hard and fast. She ditches her cardigan, counts them into her idea. On beat four she pivots, pop-locks shoulders, swipesup—gold emblem gleams dead center under the key light. Perfect.

“Simple enough that even Nico could do it,” she jokes, earning snickers.

Costas laughs loudest. “CFO dancing? Viral guaranteed.”

I raise a brow at Tabitha’s mischievous grin and surprise myself. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Really?” Her entire face brightens at the thought.

Well, I have to do it now. I can’t deny her anything when she looks at me like that.

Shoes off, socks sliding on the smooth hardwood floor. The dancers cheer. Tabitha positions me stage left, counts off. We run it once—my limbs stiff and wooden, my brain still indexing finance valuations instead of foot angles.

But her laugh bubbles, contagious, and I find myself laughing right along with her. She taps my rib cage, reminds me,“pop here.”I try again and feel something crack—my shell of formality, maybe?—and suddenly I’m actually moving.

I can also breathe better. Huh.

We nail the reveal on try three. Costas whoops, camera already rolling. I’m laughing, lungs burning from unexpected cardio.The shooters switch to a slo-mo pass, and Tabitha resets her hair, cues pyro confetti cannons—Dante’s earlier request, apparently. The take is goofy and ludicrous and has no business being in a proper campaign.

In short, it’s exactly what we need.

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