Page 33 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

NICO

I’ve never understood why hospital waiting rooms are designed like ergonomic hell—vinyl that squeaks, fluorescent panels that hum at sixty hertz, carpets patterned to hide stains nobody wants to name.

Erin is getting a follow-up exam and imaging. Another long day at the hospital. But this is the kind of reassurance we all need. That kid has woven her way into our hearts the way Tabitha did—unexpectedly.

Dr. Shah, the lead neurosurgeon, briefed us about the imaging. It would take some time to get every angle needed, and with her limited mobility, they’d have to be even more careful.

Grandma Judy responded, “Whatever you do, doc, bring me good news.”

He vowed to do his best and vanished into the depths of the hospital.

Now Tabitha paces the width of the lounge—ten steps east, perfect spin, ten steps west, repeat.

She’s wearing a slate-blue sweater dress and ballet flats, hair braided tightly down her back like a safety rope.

Whenever she spins, I catch a quick silver glint on her wrist—Erin’s medic alert bracelet.

“Pace with me, or I’ll groove a trench in the cheap carpet,” she says. I join, matching stride. My phone chirps every few minutes—department heads posting end-of-quarter update requests—but I swipe mute each time.

She hugs herself mid-turn. “Is it weird that I feel both numb and wired? This is just imaging. Double-checking. The surgery is over.”

“Crisis biphasic state,” I answer. “Heart rate up, cognition slowed to preserve decision bandwidth.” She stares. Right—less CFO, more human. I clear my throat. “It’s totally normal.”

Dante appears with vending-machine loot. Tiny bags of cinnamon bears, salted cashews, peach-tea cans. “Snack diversification is critical,” he proclaims, dropping them onto a table. He’s wearing running shoes with his blazer—comfort over aesthetics for once.

Bad Italian.

Sal emerges from the corridor where he’d been talking with Charge Nurse Maribel. “Everything is going according to schedule.”

Tabitha stops pacing. “We need a ritual.”

Grandma Judy looks up from her crochet bag. “Prayer circle?”

Dante raises a brow. “I do adrenaline, not religion, but I’m game.”

Tabitha folds us into a circle, four adults and one grandmother, hands linked. Grandma Judy leads us in a prayer that I find oddly touching, and when we say amen, it’s affecting.

Tabitha takes over a lounge corner, turning my iPad into a semi-private dance studio.

She places earbuds, closes eyes, and mark-throughs choreography in tiny wrist flicks and pointed toes—killing nerves by muscle memory.

Dante hovers near a coffee dispenser, playing barista for the entire room, us and strangers alike.

Sal pretends to nap, but that old lion has his eyes on us all.

Grandma Judy unsheathes a second yarn ball—bright green this time—and hums Christmas hymns.

My phone lights again, this time with Elias’s name blinking. He wouldn’t break Do-Not-Disturb unless the building was on fire or we set the internet ablaze. I answer, voice low, as I trail out of the waiting room.

“Elias, this had better be cataclysmic.”

He practically vibrates through the line. “You know the holiday capsule clip—the one Costas recut with you and Tabitha? It blew up. Two million TikTok views since four this morning, half of them in Seoul and LA. We’re trending globally. Everyone wants to know about the red-haired ‘Moretti Muse.’”

That red hair is in the other room, eyes closed, dancing with tiny wrist flicks to keep from unraveling. I doubt she cares about going viral right now, but a small part of me wants to tell her. It might cheer her up.

“What’s the ask?” I keep my tone flat.

“Booking requests. Macy’s spring campaign, an Adidas collab, plus streaming platforms want interviews. The press is ready to pounce.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not now.”

“Yes now! We have to strike while the iron is hot! You know how the holidays are?—”

“Family medical emergency right now, Elias. Remember? Put requests into a VIP queue. Short response—dancer is under exclusive contract, no availability until further notice.”

Silence. Elias exhales. “Understood.”

“Lock down her name,” I add. “If tabloids dig, we control the narrative. No leaks.”

“You got it, boss.” He hangs up.

I slide the phone into my inner jacket pocket next to my hotel-keycard-sized stress balm. PR wildfires can wait.

Back in the lounge, Tabitha lifts her earbuds. “Everything okay?”

“Viral video.” I shrug. “People can wait.”

Her forehead creases. “But the launch?—”

“Happens all the time. Nothing to worry about.” I squeeze her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” I risk a restroom break. In the mirror, I look like midnight in a three-piece suit. Shadows haunt my eyes, my tie is loosened, but my posture is upright. The man staring back feels oddly settled.

Six weeks ago, a crisis was a stock-price wobble. Now it’s a teenager in neurosurgical imaging.

Never saw that coming.

Twelve minutes later, Dr. Shah enters the lounge with his nurse, and everyone stands. He takes a breath. “She’s further along in her healing journey than we thought. Whatever you’re feeding her, keep it up. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Tabitha’s knees buckle, and Dante catches her waist. She releases one hysterical laugh-sob and flings both arms around Dr. Shah, then kisses his nurse.

The nurse freezes, then laughs. “I’ll put that in my performance review.”

Tabitha blushes, giggling behind her hand. “Sorry, I’m just so grateful?—”

“No worries. I understand completely.”

Dante fans imaginary flames. “Anytime you want to thank a woman, make sure we’re there to see it.”

Tabitha smacks his stomach with the back of her hand as she rolls her eyes. To be fair, I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing her with another woman, but I’ll keep that under my hat for the time being.

Sal shakes the surgeon’s hand so firmly that I see carpal bones shift. Grandma Judy presses a crocheted scarf into his pocket. Dr. Shah promises to wear it “for luck.” They part from the waiting room.

Tabitha turns to me, tears streaking her cheeks, salt trails glimmering. “She’s safe.”

“Better than safe,” I reply, and my voice cracks. I clear it. “She’s future-proof.”

A sense of cold comes over my back, like someone’s watching me.

I flick my gaze over my shoulder to find Pietro Dumas, of all fucking people. No entourage this time—just him in a spotless cashmere coat, a surgical mask hanging from his fingers.

The others notice him too. Tabitha straightens, but her posture is perfect. She’s not intimidated. “I didn’t call.”

Pietro dips his head. “I’m not here on business. I wish to know your sister’s prognosis.”

Everything in me clenches. “You have no right to be here, Pietro, and you can’t threaten her sister?—”

“No threat intended.” But his expression softens along with his voice. “Tabitha?”

“She’s doing better than expected. A lot better.”

His shoulders relax, and I can’t tell if his relief is real or an elaborate act. But it seems genuine. He mutters under his breath, “Thank God.”

Tabitha, a smile on her face, pats his shoulder. “Thank you .”

“What?” I ask.

“Pietro knows Erin’s surgeon. I’m sure he could have looked into it himself…” She glances at him. “Why ask me directly?”

“Because, sometimes, I need to treat people like people instead of assets.” He turns to me, offers a handshake. Last time we touched, tension crackled. Today, the handshake is firm, neutral. “Today is a good day. I’m glad you can spend it together.”

“That’s what families do,” Grandma Judy says, eyeing him curiously.

He smiles, nods, and leaves. No more commentary, no more answers. Why he showed up here, I’m not sure I’ll ever know. But Pietro Dumas does things his own way.

Then again, so do we.