Page 41 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

NICO

Bringing Tabitha to the studio, I’m oddly nervous. What if she doesn’t like what we’ve done with it? Granted, we built it based on her specs, but she’s been too busy with Erin to come see what we’ve done with the place.

She might hate it.

But when she steps inside and stands in the center of what used to be an old ballet studio—now named Studio T —she beams. She’s changed out of cozy knits and into black rehearsal leggings with the new Muv logotype spiraling her calf.

She turns to look at me, and the room’s LED wash spotlights tiny flecks of gold in her auburn hair.

“My boyfriend-slash-CFO-slash-fairy god-producer,” she says. “This is perfect.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

She laughs. “Um, yeah. It’s exactly what I wanted. An old place with some soul to it. The mirrored walls, the catwalk, the staging area, the dressing rooms…I can’t ask for more.”

“You could. If there’s more, I mean.”

She smiles and shakes her head. Behind her, a PA wheels in three garment racks—samples for the test shoot. Another PA follows, lugging folding chairs labeled Audition panel .

I sip. “Ready for chaos?”

She glances around the room—mirrors, mats, a basket of resistance bands, and nods. “This is the least chaotic version of my dream.”

We step to the corner bar table—makeshift desk—where I’ve laid out a single-page employment agreement. The Moretti legal team drafted it last night at my instruction. The salary line is blank. She’ll name her number.

“I wanted something lean,” I say, tapping bullet points. “No non-competes, no minimum deliverables. If you wake up in June and want to start a kitten sanctuary, walk away and we’ll fund that. Zero penalties.”

Her eyes soften. “You really would let me go?”

“Love doesn’t mean shit if it’s by force, sweetheart. And freedom isn’t a signing bonus I can revoke. We hire the whole person or we hire no one.”

She slides a finger down the page. “Hiring authority for dancers is mine?”

“All audition choices are yours. Final cut on commercials, you name it, it’s yours.”

She inhales, shoulders rising, then drops them, relief exhaled. “I won’t let you down.”

“That’s the only clause we didn’t write,” I say. “Because you can’t.”

Her grin fractures into laughter, and she signs with a flourish that arcs through the margin. I countersign, then pull a Moretti wax seal from my blazer pocket—pure theater—and stamp the corner. She pockets the agreement like a talisman.

At nine sharp, thirty dancers queue outside Studio T—street-style b-boys, pliant contemporary artists, a classical ballerina with a vivid violet Afro. Costas and our director of photography set up a two-camera rig while the lighting techs adjust LED grids to mimic stage and street.

Tabitha calls them in five at a time, the clipboard now weaponized.

She demonstrates a short phrase. Her arms are fluid, feet slicing crisp angles, a playful chest-pop that winks at hip-hop roots.

The group mirrors her. Some lag, some rush the beat.

She calls time, scribbles, and thanks them with warmth. The next five enter.

I observe from a perch behind the mixer console, headphones slung around my neck for the optics of involvement. The reality is that I’m studying her. She moves with the calm of someone born in chaos—servers yelling orders, bistro doors swinging—yet every correction she gives is scalpel-specific.

Halfway through the roster, she waves Costas over, whispers, then points at two dancers who flubbed counts but lit the room with presence. Costas nods. Tabitha marks them “call-back.” Meritocracy with a side of gut instinct. Precisely what the brand needs.

She catches my eye, offers a thumbs-up. My chest warms—a private stock split of pride.

Eventually, the last dancer departs. Tabitha collapses on the sprung floor, legs in a butterfly stretch. I hand her water and unscrew the cap. “How do we feel about the talent pool?”

“We’re spoiled,” she says between gulps. “I could cast three campaigns.”

“Do it.” I sit beside her, tie loosened. “We’ll expand the budget.”

Her eyes sparkle. “You realize you just gave a first-day employee authority over a six-figure spend?”

“I gave an expert jurisdiction over her domain.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Careful, you’re making business sound…fun.”

“Blasphemy.” I grin, then stand. “I’m due in my office. You’ve got the director until three. Anything you need, text.”

She scans her scribbles, mission thrumming. “Go CFO the world.”

My office overlooks the city. The contrast—engineering madness below, spreadsheets above—would amuse me if my next call wasn’t to Sal’s cardiologist.

I dial Dr. Mariani, speaker off for privacy even inside these walnut walls.

“Good afternoon, doctor. I’m checking in on Sal.” It’s ridiculous. I’m stealth-parenting my older brother. “Is he keeping his appointments?”

“Yes. A bit more regularly these days. His echocardiogram last week showed ejection fraction improvement. LDL down, resting BP normal. Medication compliance—excellent.”

Relief cools my spine. “And stress management?”

“He’s exploring tai chi.”

I almost laugh imagining Sal in silk pajamas in the gazebo. But whatever keeps him going, I’ll take it. “Thank you, doctor.”

“He’s different now, Nico. He mentioned a girl?—”

“Tabitha?”

“Erin. Says he’s helping to take care of her so she can recover… She’s the sister of your shared girlfriend?” Curiosity laces his voice.

I’m not sure where he’s going with this. “Yes?”

“He says he wants to be a medically good example for her.”

I grin. I can’t help it. “She’s recovering from major surgery and cancer, and she’s a teenager, so she could use a good example. Makes sense.”

“Oh. Well, that’s admirable. Whatever it takes to keep him on the straight and narrow. Same time next month?”

I almost say it’s not necessary. But one more month of checking up on him won’t hurt. “Yes. Thank you.”

Guilt flickers when I hang up. Sal values his privacy, particularly about his heart attack.

I only found out about it when I figured out he had lied about a weekend away with Alana.

Whether it’s pride, embarrassment, or something else, he wants to keep this private, and I’m not about to let him know it’s not.

I vow to schedule my own physical this quarter—preventative, not reactionary.

We don’t need two heart attacks in the family.

I change in the gym beneath the east stairs. Luca, my trainer, waits with a clipboard. No cameras, no brothers, no CFO armor.

We move through kettlebell swings, TRX rows, and dead bugs to bulletproof the lumbar. As my heart rate climbs, mental clutter drains. We finish with intervals on the rower—five hundred meters, two-minute rest, repeat. By the third round, my endorphins eclipse anxiety.

Luca sets down the timer. “Pressure release?”

“Insurance policy.” I wipe my sweat. Internally, I picture an angiogram clear of plaque, an emergency room I’ll never visit. I plan to keep it that way.

Back in my office I lose an hour to supplier invoices, then draft a CapEx proposal. Numbers line up, but my mind wanders to the dancer with the violet Afro—would her silhouette pop against Muv teal or clash? Tabitha will know.

A rap on the doorframe. Three quick, one soft. Her pattern.

She enters, cheeks flushed, clipboard replaced by a color-coded mood board. “Need a break?”

“From paperwork? Never. But for you? Always.”

She paces like a tornado contained by four walls. “Costas loves my triple-split concept. We’re doing a rehearsal film for the pre-launch tease. He says we can incorporate drone footage if we want.”

She laughs, breathless, swings around me, arms windmilling. “Also, I want to hire that duo from Berlin but relocate them for six weeks, and can we talk per diems because vegan options are scarce?—”

“Breathe,” I say.

She inhales and squeak-giggles. Her joy is a contagion deadlier than any board vote. I close the laptop, stand. She crashes against me, momentum unchecked, and I stagger into the desk edge. Laughter seizes us both.

“Permission to kiss the boss?” she whispers.

“Employee wellness policy encourages dopamine.”

The kiss is sugar-spiced from her latte, and her fingers dig under my collar. She pushes until I sit on the desk, scattering budget printouts. I tug her thigh until she’s astride, skirts bunching. The mood board flutters to the floor.

I slide a hand beneath her shirt, find warm skin, and trace the line of her spine. She gasps, arches, and presses closer. My heartbeat outpaces my breaths.

“Door,” she pants. I slap the keypad, and the lock indicator turns red.

She unknots my tie, drapes it around my neck like reins. “I’m still your employee.”

“Careful,” I murmur, “HR might audit us.”

“Then better make it worth the citation.” She rucks up her skirt and shifts the fabric.

The pressure of her thighs brackets me in place.

Button by button, she frees my shirt, while I tug hers over her head, careful of the microphone still clipped from rehearsal.

It clatters onto the carpet. We laugh again.

“You sure that’s off?”

“Hope so.”

The rest unravels. Her underwear slides off, my zipper parts, and she sinks onto me with a heated gasp that routes every ounce of blood from my head south.

Movement director indeed. She sets the tempo, hips swirling slow, then faster, until I’m gripping the desk’s edge, paperwork scattering to the floor.

We climax nearly together, her moan muffled by my shoulder, my groan swallowed into her neck. For a moment, I know nothing of budgets, contracts, cardiologists—only the neon pulse behind my eyelids and the scent of lemon-sweat on her skin.

She collapses against me, laughter lilting. “Didn’t wrinkle your spreadsheets, did I?”

“Margins love dynamic stress testing.” My voice is hoarse.

She presses a kiss to my jaw. “This is the happiest I’ve ever been, Nico.”

“I know what you mean.” I stroke her hair, feel the slow deceleration of her heartbeat against mine.

Her phone buzzes on the floor—Costas, no doubt. She sighs, slips off me, and cleans up, thanks to the wipes I keep in my top drawer. Then she checks her phone. “They need approval on stage wings by four.” She pulls her panties up, smooths her skirt. Professional yet again.

I tuck my shirt, retie half the knot. “That’s your call.”

She opens the door, peeks. Hallway clear. “Thank you, boss.”

“Any time, director.”

She blows a kiss, then disappears, heels clicking down marble.

I sink back onto the desk, exhale. Sal may worry about his heart.

Dante worries about his next thrill. Me?

I worry about losing this sense of purpose.

But as I glance at the open laptop—numbers humming in perfect rows—I realize work never felt this invigorating until it became a scaffolding for love.

I gather fallen papers, tap them into order, then pause, and smile. One sheet is creased near the corner—our meeting schedule was wrinkled by Tabitha’s knee. I smooth it, but leave the faint ridge. A souvenir.