Page 75 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

She hugs herself mid-turn. “Is it weird that I feel both numb and wired? This is just imaging. Double-checking. The surgery is over.”

“Crisis biphasic state,” I answer. “Heart rate up, cognition slowed to preserve decision bandwidth.” She stares. Right—less CFO, more human. I clear my throat. “It’s totally normal.”

Dante appears with vending-machine loot. Tiny bags of cinnamon bears, salted cashews, peach-tea cans. “Snack diversification is critical,” he proclaims, dropping them onto a table. He’s wearing running shoes with his blazer—comfort over aesthetics for once.

Bad Italian.

Sal emerges from the corridor where he’d been talking with Charge Nurse Maribel. “Everything is going according to schedule.”

Tabitha stops pacing. “We need a ritual.”

Grandma Judy looks up from her crochet bag. “Prayer circle?”

Dante raises a brow. “I do adrenaline, not religion, but I’m game.”

Tabitha folds us into a circle, four adults and one grandmother, hands linked. Grandma Judy leads us in a prayer that I find oddly touching, and when we say amen, it’s affecting.

Tabitha takes over a lounge corner, turning my iPad into a semi-private dance studio. She places earbuds, closes eyes, and mark-throughs choreography in tiny wrist flicks and pointed toes—killing nerves by muscle memory. Dante hovers near a coffee dispenser, playing barista for the entire room, us and strangers alike. Sal pretends to nap, but that old lion has his eyes on us all. Grandma Judy unsheathes a second yarn ball—bright green this time—and hums Christmas hymns.

My phone lights again, this time with Elias’s name blinking. He wouldn’t break Do-Not-Disturb unless the building was on fire or we set the internet ablaze. I answer, voice low, as I trail out of the waiting room.

“Elias, this had better be cataclysmic.”

He practically vibrates through the line. “You know the holiday capsule clip—the one Costas recut with you and Tabitha? It blew up. Two million TikTok views since four this morning, half of them in Seoul and LA. We’re trending globally. Everyone wants to know about the red-haired ‘Moretti Muse.’”

That red hair is in the other room, eyes closed, dancing with tiny wrist flicks to keep from unraveling. I doubt she cares about going viral right now, but a small part of me wants to tell her. It might cheer her up.

“What’s the ask?” I keep my tone flat.

“Booking requests. Macy’s spring campaign, an Adidas collab, plus streaming platforms want interviews. The press is ready to pounce.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not now.”

“Yes now! We have to strike while the iron is hot! You know how the holidays are?—”

“Family medical emergency right now, Elias. Remember? Put requests into a VIP queue. Short response—dancer is under exclusive contract, no availability until further notice.”

Silence. Elias exhales. “Understood.”

“Lock down her name,” I add. “If tabloids dig, we control the narrative. No leaks.”

“You got it, boss.” He hangs up.

I slide the phone into my inner jacket pocket next to my hotel-keycard-sized stress balm. PR wildfires can wait.

Back in the lounge, Tabitha lifts her earbuds. “Everything okay?”

“Viral video.” I shrug. “People can wait.”

Her forehead creases. “But the launch?—”

“Happens all the time. Nothing to worry about.” I squeeze her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” I risk a restroom break. In the mirror, I look like midnight in a three-piece suit. Shadows haunt my eyes, my tie is loosened, but my posture is upright. The man staring back feels oddly settled.

Six weeks ago, a crisis was a stock-price wobble. Now it’s a teenager in neurosurgical imaging.

Never saw that coming.

Twelve minutes later, Dr. Shah enters the lounge with his nurse, and everyone stands. He takes a breath. “She’s further along inher healing journey than we thought. Whatever you’re feeding her, keep it up. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

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