Page 65 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

I steer discussion with layered precision. Answer a Hong Kong fund manager’s question about Italian labor tax rebates whileacknowledging a Seoul partner’s interest in capsule drops, while—out of one ear—tracking Tabitha’s conversation with the wives. She’s explaining how to keep vintage velvet from bruising during long flights. The wives lean in, enthralled. Excellent.

A lifetime of thrift shopping has left her with an unusual knowledge base, and I love learning more about what’s in her head. But when Henri asks about the evening’s entertainment, I almost falter. I’ve heard about the entertainment at his parties, and there aren’t any strippers waiting in the wings to dance for him here. Hopefully, that won’t be an issue for him.

The second course is seared scallops on parsnip velouté. Dante distracts our guests during plating by telling his hang gliding story—the one where his foot snagged a pine tree, and he miraculously escaped with nothing but a bruised ego. The laughter is genuine. Even Sal’s granite façade cracks into a grudging smile.

Conversation hums through the meal, and after dessert—pistachio semifreddo flamed with amaretto and grappa—we adjourn to the south gallery for cordials. A jazz trio plays hushed standards, and deals drift naturally into side clusters.

I’m discussing supply-chain digitization with Roger Markham when I catch it. Henri Duval angles toward Tabitha like a shark tracking blood in the water. His wife is absorbed in conversation across the room with Lady Markham. Henri’s glass is half-empty, eyes half-lidded, but he focuses completely on Tabitha.

She smiles politely as he approaches the group, but excuses herself from the ladies and leaves for the restroom. He follows her out of the south gallery, a gleam in his eyes.

“Roger, if you’ll excuse me?—”

“Of course.” He turns to rejoin the conversation with Sal.

I follow quickly to rescue Tabitha from whatever Henri has in mind. I hear them down the hall and around the corner in an alcove. I can’t see her, but I see his back. He leans far too close.

My first impulse is to intercept. But a cooler voice emerges.

What if she sees an opportunity to pivot from one benefactor to another?

Henri has as much money as we do, and connections all around the world. If we’re just her stepping stone into high society?—

No. That’s not right. I know Tabitha. She’s not that kind of…

I gulp, trying not to hate myself. How many of my friends have been duped by a shrewd woman? Due diligence applies to hearts as well as ledgers.

I hate this. But I have to know. So I hover near a marble plinth of Bernini bronzes, in earshot but out of sightline, ready to spring.

Henri’s voice slurs just enough to smear consonants. “Mademoiselle Calloway, I enjoyed theshowat The Armory auction. Lovely performance art…very intimate.”

“What armory, sir?” Her voice is level.

My heartbeat is not. How does he know about that?

“Oh, you know the one. The one where you wore a slip so sheer I thought I should have paid extra for the footage.”

“I’m afraid you’re confused.” She keeps her tone light. “I have one of those faces. I get mistaken for other people all the time.”

“Non, non. I never forget a silhouette. Or a redhead. I’ve seen…let us say…a teaser of your dressing-room encore.”

I want to gut him.

Tabitha sets her champagne on a side table deliberately, steady hand, no flinch. I catch just the edge of the movement. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Henri slides a sleek black credit card from his inside pocket. “Ten thousand euros for an exclusive encore, one night only. After you finish servicing the Morettis. And I pay for premium upgrades.”

My fist curls at my side. Pulse thunders. The urge to snap his neck is visceral.

Tabitha’s voice perks up. “Tenthousand?”

“I am generous. Perhaps twenty? It depends on the services on offer. Do you only do girlfriend experiences? Dominatrix work?”

Tabitha’s sigh is audible. “Tell me, does Mrs. Duval share your philanthropic flair, or does she prefer retail therapy?”

Henri falters, gaze flicking to his wife down the hall. He shrugs. “She lives her life. I live mine.”

Tabitha presses. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear you investing household funds in… What would you call paying women for sex? Being a patron of the arts?”

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