Page 25 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

NICO

The product-launch dashboard glows on my monitor like an accusation.

Fourteen influencer kits still undelivered, three TikTok edits overdue, one final budget column stubbornly flashing red.

None of this should be on my plate.

I massage the bridge of my nose. Normally, I thrive on numbers—clean, obedient, predictable.

But it’s only days until Christmas, the Shanghai factory’s cargo is weather-stalled in Anchorage of all places, and Dante still hasn’t approved the final social-media concept because he’s busy building a snow luge for “a surprise.”

Add Tabitha’s quiet slump these last forty-eight hours, and even pivot tables feel brittle.

She appears in my doorway now, hair braided, sweater hanging loose—as if oversized knit can shield sorrow in her shoulders. “Got a minute?”

“Always.” I shut the laptop halfway, the universal gesture of you have my attention.

She steps inside, fingers tracing a faint scratch on the antique desk. “Erin’s pre-op labs looked good,” she says, trying for brightness. It falters. “But Grandma’s house might not.”

I straighten. “Foreclosure?”

“Not yet. But the mortgage forbearance ends January first. With time off to stay near the hospital, she’s behind three months.” She shrugs, brittle. “One crisis at a time, right?”

The instinct to fix flares—boost her line of credit, buy the note from the bank outright, bury the paperwork in a trust. But I log the urge internally. Tabitha hates feeling like a charity case.

Better to surprise Grandma with a quiet purchase in her own name after Erin’s surgery.

Out loud, I say, “Thank you for telling me.” And I mean it. Vulnerability is hard currency, and she’s trusting me with hers.

To pivot, I tap the half-shut laptop. “Would shadowing a launch shoot take your mind off mortgages for an hour?”

She perks up a little. “I thought a launch shoot would be under Dante’s department.”

“Officially. But if we waited for Dante to finish a content brief, the internet would be obsolete.” I stand, offering a hand. “Come rescue corporate social media from mediocrity, consultant.”

She slides her fingers into mine with a shy smile. “Lead the way, CFO.”

The content studio occupies an old sound stage near our headquarters.

Inside, floodlights balance against snowy skylights, and a quartet of Gen-Z dancers in branded puffer jackets warms up to synth-pop.

My videographer, Costas—man bun, circular glasses, eternal coffee mug—waves an iPad like a traffic baton.

“Boss! We still need a hook beat between the product hero shot and the finale. Dante said, ‘Spice it up’ and then he disappeared.”

Typical.

Tabitha surveys the C-stands and lens cases with cautious excitement.

Costas claps headphones over one ear and cues the music.

The dancers leap into the routine. Four counts of shoulder pop, spin, cross-step, phone-camera frame to reveal our Auralinebank travel bag. Technically fine—emotionally beige.

It just doesn’t hit.

Tabitha tilts her head, mouthing counts. I notice she adds a subtle hip roll on beat seven—tiny, perfect.

I tap Costas’s sleeve. “Pause.”

Music dies. Dancers pant. I gesture to Tabitha. “You see something?”

She flushes. “It’s good. But the cross-step muddies the logo reveal. If they angle the hip, and swipe up instead of down, the bag’s emblem lines up with the lens. You can see here?” She points to the replay. Sure enough, she’s right.

Dance consultant, indeed.

Costas arches a brow, impressed. “You dance?”

“She dances, choreographs, she can do anything.” Pride coats every word. I turn to her. “Can you show them how?”

Tabitha blinks. “I thought you brought me here for a distraction. I didn’t plan anything.”

“That’s what makes it good,” Costas says, feeling her out. “We need raw, not polished.”

She’s uncertain until the dancers circle her, questions coming hard and fast. She ditches her cardigan, counts them into her idea. On beat four she pivots, pop-locks shoulders, swipes up —gold emblem gleams dead center under the key light. Perfect.

“Simple enough that even Nico could do it,” she jokes, earning snickers.

Costas laughs loudest. “CFO dancing? Viral guaranteed.”

I raise a brow at Tabitha’s mischievous grin and surprise myself. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Really?” Her entire face brightens at the thought.

Well, I have to do it now. I can’t deny her anything when she looks at me like that.

Shoes off, socks sliding on the smooth hardwood floor. The dancers cheer. Tabitha positions me stage left, counts off. We run it once—my limbs stiff and wooden, my brain still indexing finance valuations instead of foot angles.

But her laugh bubbles, contagious, and I find myself laughing right along with her. She taps my rib cage, reminds me, “pop here.” I try again and feel something crack—my shell of formality, maybe?—and suddenly I’m actually moving.

I can also breathe better. Huh.

We nail the reveal on try three. Costas whoops, camera already rolling.

I’m laughing, lungs burning from unexpected cardio.

The shooters switch to a slo-mo pass, and Tabitha resets her hair, cues pyro confetti cannons—Dante’s earlier request, apparently.

The take is goofy and ludicrous and has no business being in a proper campaign.

In short, it’s exactly what we need.

When Costas calls cut, dancers high-five me. Tabitha hands me water, eyes bright. “See? Not uptight at all.”

“I’ll deny that in tomorrow’s earnings call.” I wink.

While the crew resets, we retreat to craft services—a foldout table of espresso and pistachio biscotti. Tabitha dips a biscotti, humming to herself. Her earlier heaviness has thawed, and mischief glints in those mesmerizing eyes.

I lean against a gear crate. “Your instinct for camera angles is…valuable.”

She snorts. “Instinct is cheap. The degrees everyone cares about? Those are pricy.”

“A piece of paper never told me about someone’s instinct.” I break a biscotti in half. “If you can choreograph, coach talent, and translate brand language into kinetic content, you’re already ahead of half our contractors.”

Her chewing slows. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” I dust crumbs from my lapel. “Post-holiday, we can pilot a movement director role. Part-time at first—Paris, digital capsules, maybe VR runway. We’ll budget, test KPIs, iterate.”

She sets her biscotti down, eyes bright but wary. “Nico, that’s…a lot.”

“It’s a ladder,” I counter. “You choose how high you want to climb it.”

Silence lingers, charged. She traces a powdered-sugar line on the tablecloth. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” I sip espresso. “But know that paper credentials matter less than results. We value talent and dedication above all else. That’s why we employ most of our family, pre- or post-graduation. We care about the people, not the paper.”

“I’m still paying off my college loans?—”

“We can discuss tuition reimbursement,” I offer without thinking, then grin at her startled laugh. “Kidding. Mostly.”

We wrap shoot number two with Tabitha coaching center stage—shoulders back, chin up, “smile like you just found an extra thousand dollars in your pocket.”

The dancers nail it, which makes sense. She speaks dancer .

Costas yells, “That’s a wrap!” and I feel the rare post-production high. Numbers met, creativity sparked, morale up. Even Cranky Costas is in a good mood when we leave.

Outside, snow begins again. The drive home is quiet, both of us worn from the production.

When we step out of the car, Tabitha hugs her cardigan tighter. “Thank you for today.”

“Thank you ,” I reply. “Your flair salvaged dull marketing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Dull? You danced.”

“Under duress.” But the moment her laughter cracked my composure, something lifted—like finding color in a grayscale spreadsheet.

Snowflakes catch in her lashes. She brushes them off, gaze drifting over the dark pines. “If I take that role, I’ll be in your orbit longer than our contract.”

“Is that a problem?”

She searches my face. “Depends if orbits decay.”

Ah. That. The fear of becoming a temporary satellite, crashing once its usefulness ends. I inhale the cold air, deciding to tell her the truth. “Some orbits stabilize,” I say quietly. “Attraction and gravitational pull aren’t always destructive.”

You don’t have to leave when the contract is over.

I’m not sure if she understands my meaning, and even though I danced in front of my employees today, I don’t have the spine to say that to her now. It feels rushed. Or inappropriate. Or something.

Or like she could reject me outright.

She nods, folds arms across her chest—but there’s hope in the gesture. I shrug off my suit jacket, drape it over her shoulders. “Come on. The world’s best hot chocolate waits inside.”

She slips her arms through the sleeves, fingers brushing mine—a spark, subtle and searing.

Later, in my office, the launch dashboard glows green—every column reconciled. Yet numbers blur behind a fresher metric. One woman’s genuine smile is worth more than any influencer’s CPM.

I add Grandma Judy’s mortgage to my to-do list and stare at the note, unexpected warmth pooling in my chest. Profit motive still drives me—but some investments yield returns none of my charts can quantify.

Tabitha might hate what I plan to do, but I’ll take that over the possibility that her family could lose their home.

I close the laptop and lean back, picturing Tabitha practicing choreography in the hallway, Sal guarding her hopes, Dante ready with fireworks. For the first time in years, the upcoming quarter feels less like a trial and more like a possibility.