Page 27 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Silas tilts his head toward me, curious. “So why not keep her in-house? Put her on retainer. Hell, you’ve taken on less polished people for more long-term partnerships.”
“She wants to stand on her own two feet,” I say, not missing a beat. “And I respect that.”
Max studies me for a second too long, his gaze cool, steady, and far too observant. He doesn’t push it, though, just nods and closes the proposal.
“We’ll reach out,” he says. “If she’s half as sharp as you say, she won’t stay on the market long.”
“She won’t,” I agree, finishing the drink I don’t want and setting the glass down with more force than necessary.
Silas grins. “She single?”
I shoot him a look that shuts him up. He raises both hands in surrender, but I can see the smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Max arches a brow. Doesn’t say anything. Just watches me like he knows there’s more I’m not saying.
He’d be right.
But they don’t need to know how deep I got. Or how fast. Or that the reason I’m here recommending her is because being anywhere else—being near her again—might push me past the edge I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.
“She deserves the work,” I say quietly. “Don’t waste her time.”
Silas lifts his glass. “Noted.”
Max taps his fingers against the folder. “We’ll be in touch.”
I leave the suite fifteen minutes later feeling only slightly satisfied that I’ve done what I can.
Chapter8
Gen
I’ve been home for three days and haven’t unpacked a single thing.
I haven’t done much in the way of work either. I haven’t opened my inbox. I haven’t checked Luxuria’s social tags.
Instead, I’ve reorganized the linen closet twice. Cleaned the grout in my bathroom tile. Organized my kitchen spices alphabetically. Rearranged the bookshelf by color, then by genre, then by author last name.
I even tried to go for a run, but I ended up crying on a park bench. Evie found me there. She dragged me home, shoved Thai food into my hands, and said she wasn’t leaving until I gave her permission to insult Sebastian Wolfe with the full force of her vocabulary.
None of it has helped.
Because no matter what I do, there’s still an aching, hollow pit in my chest where something else used to be. Hope, maybe. Or trust. Or whatever delusional thing I thought was growing between me and Sebastian Wolfe before he left me on his island with a note.
Anote.
Not a call. Not a conversation. Not even a decent lie to soften the landing.
Just a folded piece of paper in Dom’s hand. A professional pat on the head that boiled down tothanks for the orgasms and your excellent logistical skills—best of luck with your future endeavors.
I don’t know what I expected.
Not a relationship. Not hearts and flowers. But maybe a goodbye that wasn’t typed in twelve-point font and signed like a contract.
The humiliation comes in waves. One minute I’m fine—totally normal, totally functional, just a girl with a successful growing company and a minor penchant for overachieving. The next, I’m replaying every second of that last morning, every whispered word, every kiss, every possessive grip of his hands on my body and wondering how I misread it all so badly.
I lost my virginity to a man who touched me like he couldn’t get enough—and then walked away like I was nothing.
I've been forcing myself to push my limits, try new things. Now that I'm free of my parents' oppressive control, I can figure out what I want, what I like, who I am.
