Page 26 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Dom watches me closely as I pack up. “You’re really not going to say goodbye?”
“I already did.”
“Did you? Because she doesn’t look like she knows it.”
I don’t answer. I just tuck the last of my files into my case and check the time.
He crosses his arms. “You want me to give her the note?”
“Yes.”
Dom exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to regret this.”
Probably. But I don’t allow myself to think about it. I nod once, hand off the envelope, and leave.
The shuttle ride is silent. My flight is prepped, my assistant already coordinating arrivals for the week ahead. It’s over. That’s what I tell myself. I did what I came here to do. The event was flawless. She exceeded expectations. I’ll recommend her to Max and Silas. I already did.
It’s for the best.
She deserves better.
* * *
I step into the corner suite of Thorne Holdings and find Silas sprawled out on Max’s leather couch, sipping something too expensive for this early in the day and flipping through Gen’s Luxuria proposal like it’s a magazine spread.
“She’s good,” Silas says, lifting his brows. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
“She’s better than good,” I answer, setting down my case and heading for the wet bar. “She’s fucking excellent. Detail-oriented, flexible under pressure, and handled a multi-million-dollar launch event with less than three weeks’ prep. That kind of poise isn’t teachable.”
Silas hums, clearly impressed, even if he doesn’t want to say it outright. “Her name sounds familiar. Did she do something in Aspen last year? That bridal weekend for the Rothschild girl?”
I nod. “That was her.”
Of course Silas remembers the bride’s name. Not the groom’s. Never the groom’s.
Max steps out of his office, rolling his sleeves with the slow, deliberate precision that somehow makes the simple movement look like a strategy. He’s in tailored slacks, barefoot. He’s always barefoot in his own office. I'd say it's a weird quirk, but Max is far from what one would call normal. He gives me a look that lands somewhere between neutral and speculative.
“We’re not in the habit of poaching your hires, Wolfe.”
“She’s not mine,” I say flatly.
That earns me a longer look. From both of them.
Max leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “You sing the girl’s praises but don’t want to hire her onto your staff?”
“She was freelance. Now she’s available.”
Silas studies me. “And you’re just letting her go.”
“You don’t usually pitch this hard unless there’s something in it for you.”
She deserves more than I’m willing to give. To them, I say, “She’s building her business. Wants to stay independent. That’s why I’m recommending her to both of you. Silas, for the Women In Sports Gala your foundation is throwing. Max, for the Westchester Development Preview. That’s shaping up to be a press magnet. You want someone who can handle that level of detail without falling apart under scrutiny.”
Silas nods slowly, resting the proposal on his chest. “She’s got a hell of a visual eye. The thematic integration for the island launch was clean. Cohesive. Sexy without being obvious.”
“Good storytelling,” Max adds, scanning the top page. “Aesthetic with purpose. Not just fluff.”
“Exactly,” I say, topping off my glass but not drinking. “She doesn’t miss details. She anticipates them.”
