Page 52 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
And now, the idea of entertaining her—professionally or otherwise—sits in my gut like something sour.
Because even considering her feels like a betrayal.
Genevieve wasn’t just talented. She cared. About the work. The details. The way a room should feel when the right lighting hits the right table settings and everything clicks into place. She didn’t pitch fluff. She built experiences.
I should have offered her a permanent position on my payroll. A retainer. Something. Instead, I let her sweet innocence burrow itself under my skin until I couldn’t do anything but give in.
And then I left her. With a note.
I reach for my phone. Not to call. Just to…check. The last message from her is still unanswered. I’ve read it, of course. Multiple times. And the other messages before that. I scroll up. There are only four messages. All polite. All brief.
No emotion. No plea. Just professionalism.
And I don’t deserve anything more, do I?
I shouldn’t have opened the thread again.
Across the desk, Dom clears his throat.
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m thinking,” I correct.
“You’re brooding,” he says, not unkindly. “About her.”
I don’t answer.
“I talked to Max,” he adds after a beat. “ he said she looked like hell in the last meeting. Pale. Distracted. Shaky.”
Something tightens behind my ribs.
“She probably has the flu,” I say.
Dom tilts his head. “And if she doesn’t?”
“She’s not my responsibility.”
“You sure about that?”
No.
But I nod anyway.
He lets it go. For now.
Once he leaves, I finally open Heather’s email. The subject line is exactly what I expected.
Fresh Ideas for Spring Launch
I click once. Skim the first paragraph. Close it. Then hover over the delete button longer than I should.
When I finally hit it, it’s with more force than necessary.
Because Heather Langley is safe. Predictable. Convenient.
And I want nothing to do with her.
Because she’s not Genevieve St. Claire. And hiring another event planner feels like a betrayal. I’ve already hurt her enough.
