Page 68 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Alana works up one final tremor. “I love you?—”

“Tell someone who cares.” I open the door, letting in a gust of December knives. “So long, Alana.”

She hesitates and glares at Tabitha. “You’re a mistake. He’ll know that one day.”

“Even if I am, he still doesn’t want you. That must sting.”

Alana scowls, pivots, and clacks into the early morning. I close the door with a controlled slam that rattles the leaded-glass panes. Silence fills the still foyer. I turn to find Tabitha’s wide eyes mapping my face like searchlights.

“You’re in love with me?” she repeats, her voice a shadow of its former self.

Adrenaline has already drained, leaving tremor and dull chest pressure. I brush invisible lint off my sleeve, stalling. “Exaggeration,” I say. “Shock value. It was the only way to sever her persistence. My apologies for saying that without explaining first.”

Her mouth forms a knowing half smile. “So you lied.”

The vise around my sternum gets to work, a familiar ghost. “Only a little.” My body rebels as I speak, making my voice tighter than normal. Pain flares, sharp, just under healing scar tissue.

She steps forward instantly. “Sal, are you okay?”

“Minor pain. It’s nothing.” I back toward the grand staircase. Footing blurs, vision tunnels.Not now.But the muscle knot clamps harder, heat draining from my hands.

She grabs my forearm. “We’re going upstairs together. Now.”

I yield, letting her shepherd. What else can I do? Pride takes a back seat to higher survival math. Conscious Sal can protect. Unconscious Sal cannot. If Alana comes back, I don’t know what she’ll do, but it won’t be pretty, and now I’ve given her a new target. Tabitha.

I’m a bigger fool than I’d like to admit. What was I thinking?

I wasn’t. I was just saying what was on my mind, advisable or not. Honesty is the best defense, or so they say. Am I in love with Tabitha? Would that even matter, given our circumstances?

In my suite, she flicks on the amber lamplight, instructs me to sit on the edge of the bed. She kneels, unbuttons my dress shirt as quickly as a medic. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Five.” Liar. Seven. But I breathe through pursed lips, imagining alveoli as tiny hot-air balloons inflating against tight ropes.

She positions her fingers at my wrist, counts my pulse like she counts the beat of a song. Her hair falls like a copper curtain against my ribs as she leans close, and the scent of rosemary shampoo steadies me more than my breathing app ever did.

“Stay,” she commands, disappears into the ensuite, and returns with aspirin and water. I swallow dutifully. The pain gradually ebbs to a bruised ego. Not the big one.

When she’s satisfied the color has returned to my face, she sits beside me, drawing her feet up cross-legged. “How are you feeling?”

Silence stretches, pulling confession like taffy. I rub thumb against index in slow circle—the executive’s worry stone. “Like an old fool.”

She leans close. “You’re not either of those things.”

My pulse kicks. “I’m nearly twice your age, and you think I’m not old? What’s your concept of old?”

She giggles softly. “At least eighty.”

“Generous of you.”

“And you’re not a fool.”

“Remains to be seen, I suppose.” The room seems to expand, pressing my lungs outward. I can breathe again, thanks to her.

“So, about that lie…”

Funny. I could breathe only a moment ago. Now, the tightness returns. “Yes?”

“It was smooth. I almost believed you.”

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