Page 1 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

TABITHA

My day starts in the dark. My phone alarm went off at five so I could walk three overexcited Pomeranians for Mrs. Finkelman before swinging by the bookstore at eight.

Nothing new there—just making espresso drinks for the morning regulars.

Pendleton’s is a bookstore slash coffee shop, and they do most of their money in coffee.

The books are little more than borrowable decorations.

Now it’s noon, and I’m clocking in at Café Fontaine, grateful for the faint smell of fresh bread wafting from the kitchen. Something unkinks in me whenever that yeasty smell hits. I needed that today.

I’m already exhausted—my feet ache, and my arms feel heavy from hauling big bags of coffee beans at Pendleton’s—but I remind myself that every dollar counts.

Erin needs it. Grandma Judy needs it. I have no choice but to keep going.

After dropping my coat in the cramped employee closet, I scan the front of the bistro, which is all vintage Parisian posters and soft, ambient lighting.

It’s the kind of place where couples sip wine and pretend they’re on vacation.

A middle-aged woman hovers by the door, eyeing the golden chandelier overhead.

I hurry to greet her with my best “Bonjour!”—the one my manager, Colette, insists we use to maintain an air of authenticity.

The falseness grates on me, but the money is good, so I roll with it.

I lead the patron to a table near the large windows, watching her settle in, as she smooths her silk blouse. Once she’s all set, I move back to the hostess stand. My next wave of customers will probably come in any minute, but for a lunch shift, it’s relatively calm.

I hate the calm.

It gives me too much time to think, which is never good these days. My mind automatically drifts to Erin, who’s at home on the couch, probably dozing after her last appointment. Fifteen is way too young to be dealing with a brain tumor, but that’s our reality.

I run through my usual pep talk: You’re doing everything you can, Tabi. You left college to help. You work three jobs. We’ll get through this.

But the knot in my chest still tightens.

No matter how many hours I pour into paychecks, it never feels like enough.

We’ve already chewed through Dad’s small savings—whatever was left after he and Mom passed—and the life insurance had lapsed just before the accident.

Grandma Judy tries her best, but her house is mortgaged to the hilt, and we’re going to have to sell it sooner rather than later.

A flash of movement draws my eye. Greta, one of the servers, is sitting at a side station, rolling silverware into neat napkin bundles. She’s perched on the chair like she doesn’t fully trust it, as if even placing weight on her rear end might hurt.

“Greta, you okay?” I ask quietly, drifting close enough that customers won’t hear.

Her cheeks turn pink. “I’m fine,” she mutters, focusing on a fork she’s tucking into a napkin. She glances over her shoulder to ensure our manager isn’t around. “Just…a little sore.”

I open my mouth to press her further, but she shakes her head, indicating this isn’t the time or place.

With a sympathetic nod, I return to my station.

We all have secrets, I guess, and I don’t want to pry if she’s not ready to talk.

Still, I can’t help wondering if she hurt herself or if there’s more to the story.

Before I can dwell on it, my phone vibrates in my apron pocket. Grandma Judy almost never calls me at work unless it’s urgent, so my stomach clenches. The hostess stand is quiet, so I duck behind a divider for a shred of privacy. “Gram?” I whisper into the phone. “Something wrong?”

She takes in a shaky breath. “Tabi, the hospital emailed me the final estimate for Erin’s surgery. It’s worse than we anticipated.”

My heart drops. “Worse than… Can we still sell the house? Isn’t that enough?”

“They’re quoting more than the entire value, honey. I asked the bank for another loan—no luck. They said I’m tapped out from the previous treatments.” A pause, then a small, trembling laugh that isn’t really laughter at all. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I wish I had better news.”

I close my eyes, feeling tears threaten. “It’s not your fault. I’ll…pick up more shifts, or something. We won’t let Erin go without the surgery.”

We exchange a few more hushed words, both of us forcing optimism we don’t feel. It’s grinding on us all, but we try to keep Erin from knowing too much. She doesn’t deserve this kind of stress on top of what she’s handling.

My body moves on autopilot for the rest of the day: greet, seat, smile. But my mind keeps looping. We’re out of loans. The house isn’t enough. Erin’s surgery is urgent. Where can I possibly get that kind of money?

I hate break time, but Colette insists we take them—she’s the opposite of every boss I’ve ever had. I should be grateful, but slowing down means thinking, and thinking means thinking about bills.

My breaks feel less like breaks and more like time wasted, when I could be earning money.

Inside the break room, which is barely bigger than a closet, Greta is perched on a folding chair, sipping coffee and wincing. She looks up as I enter, her cheeks heating. “Hey, Tabi.”

“Hey,” I say softly, pulling out the other chair. “You sure you’re alright? You look… Well, you look like you’re in pain. I don’t mean to pry, but I’m worried.”

There’s hesitation in her eyes. “Just…promise you won’t judge me?”

I blink. “Why would I judge you?”

She runs a hand through her hair, carefully checking that we’re alone. “I had a weekend gig at this club—adult-oriented. Let’s just say I was…entertaining some well-paying clients, and things got a little intense.”

“Entertaining?” I think I know what she means, but I want clarity.

Her cheeks flush pink. “As in, kinky sex.”

My eyes widen, and I swallow my initial surprise. “So…you got paid a lot for that?”

“I earned more in two nights than I usually make here in six months. It’s insane. The bartender—Gabriel—hooked me up. I needed quick cash for my bills, so I figured…why not? I mean, they have rules and security, so it’s not total chaos.”

I shift in my seat. Six months’ wages in two days? “No judgment, but that’s a little scary. You sure you’re okay?”

She looks relieved I’m not condemning her. “Yeah, well, I’m fine. Definitely not up for it every weekend, but I don’t regret it at all.”

“Are you going to do it again?”

“Not anytime soon. But I’m jealous of the girls working next Saturday—it’s some special event.”

“Special how?”

Her lips twitch. “They’re auctioning off virginities.

Apparently, it’s a big deal to some people.

” She shrugs. “Sometimes it’s a single night, sometimes it can be extended to a month if both parties agree.

The payouts are astronomical. I’ve heard rumors of girls walking away with enough money to buy a house outright.

I’d do it in a heartbeat if I still had my V-card. ”

My heart hammers as I take that in. Selling virginity? It sounds like something you’d read in a sensational headline or watch in a scandalous TV show. But the way Greta says it—calmly, matter-of-fact—makes it feel very real.

And I can’t ignore the jolt of…possibility?

We need a massive amount of money for Erin’s surgery.

I’m a virgin at twenty-three, thanks to a busy schedule and a million family obligations.

I force a casual laugh. “Wow. I had no idea that kind of thing existed outside, I don’t know, certain corners of the internet. ”

Greta shrugs. “The Armory is pretty legit, from what I’ve seen.

They have a guy named Pietro who runs the virginity auctions.

He’s got a no-nonsense reputation—if anyone mistreats his virgins, they pay dearly.

So it’s not as if it’s a free-for-all. It’s just…

a very adult transaction. Some folks think it’s shady, others see it as a shot at life-changing money. Depends on your perspective, I guess.”

I nod, my mind spinning. “Yeah. Perspective. For sure.”

My perspective is a little different from Greta’s. I’m not worried about my personal bills—I have almost none, thanks to moving in with Grandma Judy. Still, my three jobs barely scratch the surface of Erin’s medical bills. But a virginity auction that pays out like she’s talking…?

Greta checks her watch, then stands slowly, wincing. “End of break time. If you ever wanna know more, Gabriel’s the one with the connections.” She gives me a half smile, then heads back onto the floor.

I remain seated for a moment, heart pounding. My break ends in a few minutes, but my thoughts reel. Could I really sell my virginity to strangers at some secret club?

My phone buzzes again, and I check the screen—another missed call from an unknown number. Probably a bill collector.

My stomach tightens. If I pretend I’ve never heard of this virgin auction, am I letting Erin’s chance slip away? How could I do that to her?

Exhaling shakily, I get up, smooth my apron, and slip back into the bistro’s main room.

The gentle clink of silverware and the murmur of patrons fill the air.

Colette scurries by, reminding me we have a five-top reservation soon.

I nod, automatically reciting the table number I’ll seat them at, but my mind is elsewhere.

I blink, and we’ve hit that odd lull between lunch and dinner.

My mind’s too busy, contemplating the auction.

Only a few tables remain occupied. Gabriel polishes wine glasses at the bar, humming to himself.

He’s always been kind to me, tossing an extra lemon slice in my water or giving me a heads-up about slow nights.

Now, I wonder about his other side—his “club connection.” If he helped Greta, he could point me in the same direction.

But I don’t move from behind the hostess stand. I just stand there, flipping the corners of the reservation book and smiling mechanically at the handful of customers finishing their meals. Over and over, a single question loops in my brain: Can I do this?

The practical side of me scoffs that I’m not even adventurous enough to date around, let alone sign up for a BDSM club. Another side of me, the side that sees Erin lying in a hospital bed, knows I’d endure any humiliation for the money to save her.

When the last lunch diners pay their checks, the staff sets about reconfiguring some tables for the dinner crowd. A busboy wipes down the tabletops while Greta fetches fresh silverware. It would feel like a normal day, if I weren’t thinking about strangers paying me for sex.

My hands are trembling. It’s almost like my body already knows the decision forming in my mind. Even if it’s scandalous, even if it means stepping into a world that terrifies me. It’s not about me—it’s about saving my sister’s life.

The day drags on. Around three thirty, we get a few stragglers wanting coffee and pastries. I seat them, deliver menus, and return to my little station. I tap a pen against the wooden countertop, my reflection staring back at me from the brass trim.

I look tired and older than twenty-three. The events of the past few years have forced me to grow up fast—dropping out of college, juggling multiple jobs, and supporting Erin through her endless treatments. Sometimes, I don’t even remember what it’s like to have a normal life.

Pushing that thought aside, I focus on the only reality that matters. There is no other option. The moral weight of it is huge, but so is the cost of not trying.

Real life doesn’t care about romantic fantasies—it cares about hospital bills and the harsh truth that we’re out of time. If I have to sell my virginity to strangers, then so be it. Erin’s life is worth more than my pride.