Page 91 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

She glances around the room—mirrors, mats, a basket of resistance bands, and nods. “This is the least chaotic version of my dream.”

We step to the corner bar table—makeshift desk—where I’ve laid out a single-page employment agreement. The Moretti legal team drafted it last night at my instruction. The salary line is blank. She’ll name her number.

“I wanted something lean,” I say, tapping bullet points. “No non-competes, no minimum deliverables. If you wake up in June and want to start a kitten sanctuary, walk away and we’ll fund that. Zero penalties.”

Her eyes soften. “You really would let me go?”

“Love doesn’t mean shit if it’s by force, sweetheart. And freedom isn’t a signing bonus I can revoke. We hire the whole person or we hire no one.”

She slides a finger down the page. “Hiring authority for dancers is mine?”

“All audition choices are yours. Final cut on commercials, you name it, it’s yours.”

She inhales, shoulders rising, then drops them, relief exhaled. “I won’t let you down.”

“That’s the only clause we didn’t write,” I say. “Because you can’t.”

Her grin fractures into laughter, and she signs with a flourish that arcs through the margin. I countersign, then pull a Moretti wax seal from my blazer pocket—pure theater—and stamp the corner. She pockets the agreement like a talisman.

At nine sharp, thirty dancers queue outside Studio T—street-style b-boys, pliant contemporary artists, a classical ballerina with a vivid violet Afro. Costas and our director of photography set up a two-camera rig while the lighting techs adjust LED grids to mimic stage and street.

Tabitha calls them in five at a time, the clipboard now weaponized. She demonstrates a short phrase. Her arms are fluid, feet slicing crisp angles, a playful chest-pop that winks at hip-hop roots. The group mirrors her. Some lag, some rush the beat. She calls time, scribbles, and thanks them with warmth. The next five enter.

I observe from a perch behind the mixer console, headphones slung around my neck for the optics of involvement. The reality is that I’m studying her. She moves with the calm of someone born in chaos—servers yelling orders, bistro doors swinging—yet every correction she gives is scalpel-specific.

Halfway through the roster, she waves Costas over, whispers, then points at two dancers who flubbed counts but lit the room with presence. Costas nods. Tabitha marks them“call-back.”Meritocracy with a side of gut instinct. Precisely what the brand needs.

She catches my eye, offers a thumbs-up. My chest warms—a private stock split of pride.

Eventually, the last dancer departs. Tabitha collapses on the sprung floor, legs in a butterfly stretch. I hand her water and unscrew the cap. “How do we feel about the talent pool?”

“We’re spoiled,” she says between gulps. “I could cast three campaigns.”

“Do it.” I sit beside her, tie loosened. “We’ll expand the budget.”

Her eyes sparkle. “You realize you just gave a first-day employee authority over a six-figure spend?”

“I gave an expert jurisdiction over her domain.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Careful, you’re making business sound…fun.”

“Blasphemy.” I grin, then stand. “I’m due in my office. You’ve got the director until three. Anything you need, text.”

She scans her scribbles, mission thrumming. “Go CFO the world.”

My office overlooks the city. The contrast—engineering madness below, spreadsheets above—would amuse me if my next call wasn’t to Sal’s cardiologist.

I dial Dr. Mariani, speaker off for privacy even inside these walnut walls.

“Good afternoon, doctor. I’m checking in on Sal.” It’s ridiculous. I’m stealth-parenting my older brother. “Is he keeping his appointments?”

“Yes. A bit more regularly these days. His echocardiogram last week showed ejection fraction improvement. LDL down, resting BP normal. Medication compliance—excellent.”

Relief cools my spine. “And stress management?”

“He’s exploring tai chi.”

I almost laugh imagining Sal in silk pajamas in the gazebo. But whatever keeps him going, I’ll take it. “Thank you, doctor.”

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