Page 92 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“He’s different now, Nico. He mentioned a girl?—”

“Tabitha?”

“Erin. Says he’s helping to take care of her so she can recover… She’s the sister of yoursharedgirlfriend?” Curiosity laces his voice.

I’m not sure where he’s going with this. “Yes?”

“He says he wants to be a medically good example for her.”

I grin. I can’t help it. “She’s recovering from major surgery and cancer, and she’s a teenager, so she could use a good example. Makes sense.”

“Oh. Well, that’s admirable. Whatever it takes to keep him on the straight and narrow. Same time next month?”

I almost say it’s not necessary. But one more month of checking up on him won’t hurt. “Yes. Thank you.”

Guilt flickers when I hang up. Sal values his privacy, particularly about his heart attack. I only found out about it when I figured out he had lied about a weekend away with Alana. Whether it’s pride, embarrassment, or something else, he wants to keep this private, and I’m not about to let him know it’s not. I vow to schedule my own physical this quarter—preventative, not reactionary.

We don’t need two heart attacks in the family.

I change in the gym beneath the east stairs. Luca, my trainer, waits with a clipboard. No cameras, no brothers, no CFO armor.

We move through kettlebell swings, TRX rows, and dead bugs to bulletproof the lumbar. As my heart rate climbs, mental clutter drains. We finish with intervals on the rower—five hundred meters, two-minute rest, repeat. By the third round, my endorphins eclipse anxiety.

Luca sets down the timer. “Pressure release?”

“Insurance policy.” I wipe my sweat. Internally, I picture an angiogram clear of plaque, an emergency room I’ll never visit. I plan to keep it that way.

Back in my office I lose an hour to supplier invoices, then draft a CapEx proposal. Numbers line up, but my mind wanders to the dancer with the violet Afro—would her silhouette pop against Muv teal or clash? Tabitha will know.

A rap on the doorframe. Three quick, one soft. Her pattern.

She enters, cheeks flushed, clipboard replaced by a color-coded mood board. “Need a break?”

“From paperwork? Never. But for you? Always.”

She paces like a tornado contained by four walls. “Costas loves my triple-split concept. We’re doing a rehearsal film for the pre-launch tease. He says we can incorporate drone footage if we want.”

She laughs, breathless, swings around me, arms windmilling. “Also, I want to hire that duo from Berlin but relocate them for six weeks, and can we talk per diems because vegan options are scarce?—”

“Breathe,” I say.

She inhales and squeak-giggles. Her joy is a contagion deadlier than any board vote. I close the laptop, stand. She crashes against me, momentum unchecked, and I stagger into the desk edge. Laughter seizes us both.

“Permission to kiss the boss?” she whispers.

“Employee wellness policy encourages dopamine.”

The kiss is sugar-spiced from her latte, and her fingers dig under my collar. She pushes until I sit on the desk, scattering budget printouts. I tug her thigh until she’s astride, skirts bunching. The mood board flutters to the floor.

I slide a hand beneath her shirt, find warm skin, and trace the line of her spine. She gasps, arches, and presses closer. My heartbeat outpaces my breaths.

“Door,” she pants. I slap the keypad, and the lock indicator turns red.

She unknots my tie, drapes it around my neck like reins. “I’m still your employee.”

“Careful,” I murmur, “HR might audit us.”

“Then better make it worth the citation.” She rucks up her skirt and shifts the fabric. The pressure of her thighs brackets me in place. Button by button, she frees my shirt, while I tug hers over her head, careful of the microphone still clipped from rehearsal. It clatters onto the carpet. We laugh again.

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