Page 90 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“You survived the morning move,” he says. There’s a gleam—approval? Amusement? Hard to know with this man.

Am I surprised he knows our business? No. Does it bother me? Yes. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s his little way of showing off, and if you have to show off that hard, then you don’t actually have much else going on.

I answer. “The noise level is rising exponentially, but we’ll adjust.”

“Women bring more than warmth with them, don’t they?” He gestures to a seat at a matte-black table where two account leads wait with tablets. On the screen is a draft creative grid. The MUV logo is embedded in parkour GIFs, 3-D billboards for overseas, some new boards in Los Angeles, and a VR training experience, complete with our entire line.

We discuss deliverables, and a six-month retainer, a cross-platform strategy, and influencer vetting. No more rogue virality surprises. We want complete control over the image. Pietro’sleads quote a number. I negotiate down ten percent but add two bonus activations. Nico would be proud.

At one point, Pietro leans back, steepling his fingers. “Your brothers trust you with this?”

“It’s my division.” I hold his gaze. “Time to act like it.”

“And Tabitha trusts you to lighten Nico’s load.” His tone walks the line between jab and genuine curiosity.

“She trusts us all,” I reply carefully.

“Admirable.” He signs the term sheet with a fountain pen that probably costs more than a Vespa. “Only you as the point of contact. My team answers to you, no one else.”

“Precisely.” I can’t resist. “You realize you’re technically on our payroll now. If you wanted to work for us, all you had to do was ask.”

He smirks. “The Dumas family prefers autonomy. But good partnerships are symbiotic.” He slides the signed pages my way. “And good partners recognize talent.”

He stands, and we shake. His grip is firm but not predatory—maybe our thirty-day saga changed him too, if only a degree. Or maybe wolves respect those who keep the lambs alive.

After, I sit in my car, thinking. On a whim, I open the photo app, create a new album titled T. First image, Tabitha laughing over cappuccino foam. Second, she holds a baguette I made like a conductor’s baton. Third, her tears, joyful, when she heard the wheelchair ramp would be permanent.

Album saved. Cloud-synced. Permanent. Time to head home to my family.

The drive is calming, despite the speed. Nothing eats away anxiety like tires eating the road. The villa roofline appears beyond the next rise, spires like iced-cake turrets. Inside are new noises—a teenager discovering our elevator, a grandmother humming Christmas tunes well after the holiday is over, my brothers debating motor torque on stair-assist devices. And Tabitha, somewhere inside, learning that loving us doesn’t mean sacrificing her rhythm.

The car slows, gates open, and my pulse does something odd—it steadies. Maybe I can fly off cliffs on weekendsandschedule weekday marketing matrices. Maybe balance isn’t the absence of motion but the harmony of it.

I pocket the term sheet and step onto the snowy drive.

Time to deliver good news—and maybe sneak Erin a spoiler about tonight’s homemade unicorn-marshmallow batch.

39

NICO

Bringing Tabitha to the studio,I’m oddly nervous. What if she doesn’t like what we’ve done with it? Granted, we built it based on her specs, but she’s been too busy with Erin to come see what we’ve done with the place.

She might hate it.

But when she steps inside and stands in the center of what used to be an old ballet studio—now namedStudio T—she beams. She’s changed out of cozy knits and into black rehearsal leggings with the new Muv logotype spiraling her calf. She turns to look at me, and the room’s LED wash spotlights tiny flecks of gold in her auburn hair.

“My boyfriend-slash-CFO-slash-fairy god-producer,” she says. “This is perfect.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

She laughs. “Um, yeah. It’s exactly what I wanted. An old place with some soul to it. The mirrored walls, the catwalk, the staging area, the dressing rooms…I can’t ask for more.”

“You could. If there’s more, I mean.”

She smiles and shakes her head. Behind her, a PA wheels in three garment racks—samples for the test shoot. Another PA follows, lugging folding chairs labeledAudition panel.

I sip. “Ready for chaos?”

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