Page 5 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Evie inhales sharply. Then, “Okay. Okay, that’s...bad. That’s really bad. But hear me out—maybehe has a humiliation kink.”

I groan.

And keep walking.

Chapter2

Gen

Ihaven’t moved from the couch in six hours.

Correction: I did get up once. To pee and look for chocolate. There wasn’t any. Not even any gross, leftover Halloween candy. Which somehow felt like the universe personally flipping me off.

My throw blanket is askew, there’s a cold cup of chamomile tea sweating onto a coaster, and I’ve hit the end of the streaming void where the algorithm stops offering suggestions and just flashes “Are you still watching?” with palpable judgment.

Yes, Netflix. I am still watching. I am still wallowing. I am still completely humiliated.

Evie says I’m being dramatic. I say that accidentally projecting my own half-nude body onto a billionaire’s conference room screen deserves at least threefulldays of spiraling. Minimum.

I haven’t checked my email. I can’t.

What am I even waiting for? A pity message from his assistant? A formal rejection letter in Helvetica Bold? A cease and desist from ever entering a Wolfe Resorts property again?

“Okay, girl. Come on, now,” Evie nudges my leg with her foot like she’s afraid to get too close to the biohazard I have clearly become. I showered…yesterday? Maybe two days ago. I don’t know.

I roll onto my side, burying my face into the couch pillow. I can feel my phone somewhere under the throw blanket, taunting me. I should delete the presentation folder from my laptop. I should deletemyselffrom the professional registry.

“Did Sebastian Wolfe reach through the internet and strangle you with your own panty pic?”

I don’t respond. I don’t have the energy to admit that Imighthave accidentally refreshed his company’s news page thirty times this morning like a crazy person.

“Gen, do I need to procure tequila and an emotional support vibrator?”

“I faceplanted into him, Evie.”

“You tripped.”

“Onto. His. Chest.”

A beat. “Okay, yeah, that’s bad. But still. You’re spiraling and you haven’t even heard back yet. Maybe he thought it was charming.”

“He thought I was a hazard. To furniture. And beverages. And professional dignity.”

“You need to let this go. It’s been three days.”

“Three days and twenty-one hours,” I mutter.

“Okay, see, that’s what I mean. You’re tracking it like your meal macros.”

I shove the blanket over my head. “I should just become a mailman. Or a nun. One of those jobs where no one expects eye contact or digital presentations.”

Evie ignores that. “Did you send him the follow-up email I told you to?”

“Yes.”

“Did you attach thecorrectpitch deck this time?”

“Also, yes. I even triple-checked the attachments.”