Page 67 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Warmth skyrockets in my chest. “You sound brilliant.”

She arches a brow. “Brilliant enough to become movement director full-time?”

I smile. “Offer letter drafts tomorrow.”

Her grin flips shy. Then she sobers. “For the record, no price could make me change my mind about you or your brothers.”She leans in until her lips graze my ear. “I’m not for sale anymore.”

An earthquake of relief and desire rumbles through me. I capture her mouth, savoring the sweet taste of her lips, her tongue.

She withdraws slightly. “Your family takes things very seriously. Maybe too seriously.”

“I can work on that.” My voice is weak and soaked in affection.

She laughs, head tipping back, throat pale in candle glow. I kiss that pulse point, feeling it spring beneath my lips. “I’d be happy to help you with that project too.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

28

SALVATORE

Even the bestcellists rest their bows eventually. Last night was my bow-down evening. Contracts for the Seoul flagship finally cleared legal, and Sir John’s term sheet sits in my safe, embossed and marvelously un-snagged. No one gave me a reason to pick up my bow. The night went splendidly. No cause for drama, no need to verbally bring someone over my knee. No threats needed. It was an elaborate, yet simple dinner.

Didn’t even get a twinge in my chest when Nico hinted something had happened. He’ll tell me if I need to know.

I reward myself with an indulgence I rarely admit. Strolling the villa alone in the early hours, touching the heirlooms our father used to polish by hand. I pause at the nineteenth-century bronze stallion in the foyer—its raised hoof ready to trample obstacles. Somehow in the last few days, the obstacles have morphed from Pietro’s surprise inspection, to hackers sniffing for dressing-room gold, to Alana, who still occupies my blind spots more than I want to confess.

But she no longer occupies my heart. Progress.

I’m halfway through planning which artisan hot-chocolate kit to pack for the surgical waiting room when a voice cuts the silence. Two, actually. Both women. One low and razor-smooth, the other firm and lifting at the edges. I can’t make out what’s being said, but by the tone, none of it is good.

To the foyer.

On the way there, my pulse stumbles once, then hammers forward. Tabitha’s voice rings clear, and so does the other one. I’d know that knife-velvet timbre anywhere.

Alana.

She stands just inside the double doors, snow crystals still melting in her black hair. She wears a winter-white cashmere wrap I once commissioned from a Scottish mill. In front of her, barefoot in plaid pajama pants and a long cardigan, is Tabitha—hair sleep-tousled, cheeks pink with adrenaline.

They’re squared like fencers. Tabitha’s arms cross her chest, but her shoulders are relaxed, weight on the balls of her feet—ready for tangible defense if words fail. Alana’s posture is tragedy-queen. Head tilted, one gloved hand pressed to décolletage, eyes glassy. The very imitation of innocence.

Tabitha sees me first, relief flickering, but she holds her line. “I told her we’d call the police for trespassing if she doesn’t leave.”

Alana turns and lets out a little gasp as she wipes her crocodile tears. “Salvatore, thank God. This child?—”

I cut her off with a raised palm. “Leave.”

“What…what are you talking about?”

“You had your chance. You ruined it. You live with the consequences.” I step beside Tabitha, the marble tiles cold through my thin socks. “Get out.”

Her mascara is perfect. Tears do not melt it. She’d never own anything that could betray something as useless as human emotion. Not her style. “Sal, you’re making a mistake. I can explain everything.” She reaches for my sleeve, but I catch her wrist midair and peel it away.

“Do not try me, Alana. There’s no explanation for theft.” My voice is calm, legal-brief calm. “And even if I weren’t in love with Tabitha, I would never go back to you.”

The sentence hangs in Christmas-lit silence. Alana’s pupils dilate. Tabitha’s breath catches audibly.

The blood roars in my ears. What did I just admit to the two women who least should hear it simultaneously? I steady my footing.A tactic,I convince myself.Just meaningless words to dislodge the ex.

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