Page 1 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Chapter1

Gen

I’m going to throw up. Not metaphorically. Not in theugh, I’m so nervousway. I mean, actually vomit. Preferably not on my silk blouse, but at this point, I’m not ruling anything out.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, gripping the steering wheel of my SUV like it might anchor me to reality.

On the other end of the line, Evie attempts to soothe me. “You absolutely can. Youhaveto. You look gorgeous, your slides are prepped, and your face says ‘hire me or perish’. You’re terrifying in the best way.”

“Evie—”

“No. Deep breath. You earned this interview. Your résumé is ridiculous. Luxuria Events is thriving. You didn’t get this meeting because your dad knows a guy—you got it because you’re the best at what you do. The connection just opened the door. You’re the one who’s going to slam it shut on your competition’s face.”

I exhale slowly. Inhale. Exhale again. She’s right. Mostly.

The truth is, this meeting with Sebastian Wolfe—yes,thatSebastian Wolfe, the hospitality tycoon who practically owns half the private islands in the world—is the biggest opportunity of my career. If I land this contract, Luxuria Events won’t just be a boutique agency trying to prove itself. We’ll belegit.

If I blow it? I’ll be the girl that got blacklisted from the luxury event scene before thirty.

Okay. Now I’mdefinitelygoing to throw up.

“I’ve gotta go,” I tell her as I pull into the underground parking lot. “Pray for me.”

“Already lit a candle. And don’t forget to keep your voice steady when you speak. Remember—slow is smooth, smooth is professional domination.”

“That’s not the quote.”

“It is now. Go crush it.”

I end the call, check my reflection in the visor mirror one last time, and force myself to step out of the car. My heels click against concrete. My blazer is crisp. My pitch deck is flawless. My anxiety? It might actually kill me before I reach the conference room.

The elevator ride feels too fast. Or maybe it’s my heart that’s racing ahead of me. I’ve studied Sebastian Wolfe’s entire portfolio. I know his preferred layout for large-scale events. I’ve triple-checked the spacing guidelines for his newest luxury island venue.

I am prepared.

And yet, when the elevator doors open to reveal a minimalist office suite with floor-to-ceiling glass walls and a view so unreal it looks photoshopped, all that preparation disintegrates.

I’m deposited into a reception area that smells faintly of eucalyptus. A woman with sleek black hair and four-inch heels stands waiting for me.

“You must be Ms. St. Claire,” she says, her smile professional and thin. “Mr. Wolfe is ready for you. Right this way.”

I murmur a thank-you and follow her through a glass-paneled corridor, heart hammering against my ribs. This is fine. I’m fine. I’ve pitched events to venture capitalists and trust fund royals. I can handle a man who builds private islands for fun.

Except—I walk into the conference room and see him, and every functioning part of my brain short-circuits.

He’s seated at the head of the table in a charcoal suit that fits too perfectly to be off the rack. His posture is effortless, like the chair was made to accommodate only him. But it’s his face that unmoors me.

I’ve seen pictures, obviously. Anyone remotely plugged into the event or luxury world has. He’s been on the cover ofForbes,GQ,Architectural Digest—a dozen images I’ve committed to memory in preparation for this meeting. But in person?

He’s devastating.

The camera didn’t do his eyes justice—sharp, cool green, like polished glass, focused entirely on me. His jaw is cut from stone. And he wears control like a second skin.

“Ms. St. Claire.”

Two words. Okay, three technically—my last name is a mouthful. But that’s all it takes. His voice is smooth. Precise. The kind of voice that makes people scramble to please him and hate themselves for enjoying it. And apparently enough to make my knees forget how to function.

“Mr. Wolfe,” I reply, a little too breathily.