Page 31 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

“The photos were in the Chronicle. Very polished.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you help with the table settings? I thought the floral choices were a little aggressive, but the lighting was lovely,” my mother chimes in. “Who handled the lighting?”

“I did.” My jaw tightens. “I designed the entire event.”

That gets her attention. She lifts her eyes, blinks. “Oh. Well. That’s…ambitious.”

Ambitious. The word hits harder than it should. It’s the same tone she uses when someone wears fuchsia to a funeral or brings store-bought pie to a dinner party. Not quite disgusted. Just faintly disappointed.

“Big name like Wolfe. That’ll help your résumé,” my father says.

“It’s not a résumé, Dad. It’s a portfolio when it's for your company.”

He gives a noncommittal hum, slicing into the frittata. “Of course. But it’s still good experience. Maybe next time someone more established will bring you on full-time.”

I clench my hands under the table. “That’s not the goal.”

They both pause.

My mother blinks again, polite confusion clouding her expression. “I thought the whole point of all this was to land something permanent. You’ve been floating for years.”

I take a breath. “I’ve been building something. Luxuria is permanent. I have employees. A growing client base. National recognition.”

She smiles politely. “And yet you’re still renting that little apartment with Evie.”

“That little apartment keeps the lights on at a business that’s made six figures for the last two years.”

My father sets down his fork. “No need to get defensive.”

“I’m not.” I straighten my shoulders. “I’m just trying to correct your assumption that what I’m doing is a placeholder for something better. Itisthe something better.”

The silence stretches.

Then my mother lifts her teacup and sips delicately. “Well. You certainly sound passionate.”

She says it the way people sayemotional.Orunstable.

I glance down at my plate, appetite completely gone. I wonder what would happen if I just stood up and left. Just walked out the way Sebastian did, clean and cold and without explanation.

But I don’t. I stay seated, cheeks burning, throat tight. Because walking away fromthemfeels worse than being dismissed by a man I barely knew. Because this is the rejection that shaped everything.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to earn their approval. Not their love—they give that in the shallow, obligatory way of people who think good grades and clean fingernails are proof of character. But respect? Pride? That’s been the unreachable brass ring.

And I’m tired of reaching for it.

They finish brunch with soft questions about “eligible bachelors” and a reminder that open enrollment for grad school is coming up if I “decide to go the traditional route after all”. I nod where appropriate and say nothing when my mother offers to send me the contact info for her friend’s niece, who’s “doing very well in HR and could help you get a foot in the door somewhere stable”.

Stable. The word echoes.

When I finally leave, it’s with a headache and a stomach full of resentment. I close the car door with a little more force than necessary and sit there for a moment, fingers tight around the steering wheel.

They’ll never get it.

That used to devastate me. Now? It just exhausts me.

I flip open my phone, partly to avoid crying and partly to prove to myself that there’s a world outside this driveway.