Filthy Rich Silver Foxes (Filthy Rich Harems #4)

1. Gen

Chapter 1

Gen

I ’m going to throw up. Not metaphorically. Not in the ugh, I’m so nervous way. I mean, actually vomit. Preferably not on my silk blouse, but at this point, I’m not ruling anything out.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, gripping the steering wheel of my SUV like it might anchor me to reality.

On the other end of the line, Evie attempts to soothe me. “You absolutely can. You have to. You look gorgeous, your slides are prepped, and your face says ‘hire me or perish’. You’re terrifying in the best way.”

“Evie—”

“No. Deep breath. You earned this interview. Your résumé is ridiculous. Luxuria Events is thriving. You didn’t get this meeting because your dad knows a guy—you got it because you’re the best at what you do. The connection just opened the door. You’re the one who’s going to slam it shut on your competition’s face.”

I exhale slowly. Inhale. Exhale again. She’s right. Mostly.

The truth is, this meeting with Sebastian Wolfe—yes, that Sebastian Wolfe, the hospitality tycoon who practically owns half the private islands in the world—is the biggest opportunity of my career. If I land this contract, Luxuria Events won’t just be a boutique agency trying to prove itself. We’ll be legit.

If I blow it? I’ll be the girl that got blacklisted from the luxury event scene before thirty.

Okay. Now I’m definitely going to throw up.

“I’ve gotta go,” I tell her as I pull into the underground parking lot. “Pray for me.”

“Already lit a candle. And don’t forget to keep your voice steady when you speak. Remember— slow is smooth, smooth is professional domination. ”

“That’s not the quote.”

“It is now. Go crush it.”

I end the call, check my reflection in the visor mirror one last time, and force myself to step out of the car. My heels click against concrete. My blazer is crisp. My pitch deck is flawless. My anxiety? It might actually kill me before I reach the conference room.

The elevator ride feels too fast. Or maybe it’s my heart that’s racing ahead of me. I’ve studied Sebastian Wolfe’s entire portfolio. I know his preferred layout for large-scale events. I’ve triple-checked the spacing guidelines for his newest luxury island venue.

I am prepared.

And yet, when the elevator doors open to reveal a minimalist office suite with floor-to-ceiling glass walls and a view so unreal it looks photoshopped, all that preparation disintegrates.

I’m deposited into a reception area that smells faintly of eucalyptus. A woman with sleek black hair and four-inch heels stands waiting for me.

“You must be Ms. St. Claire,” she says, her smile professional and thin. “Mr. Wolfe is ready for you. Right this way.”

I murmur a thank-you and follow her through a glass-paneled corridor, heart hammering against my ribs. This is fine. I’m fine. I’ve pitched events to venture capitalists and trust fund royals. I can handle a man who builds private islands for fun.

Except—I walk into the conference room and see him, and every functioning part of my brain short-circuits.

He’s seated at the head of the table in a charcoal suit that fits too perfectly to be off the rack. His posture is effortless, like the chair was made to accommodate only him. But it’s his face that unmoors me.

I’ve seen pictures, obviously. Anyone remotely plugged into the event or luxury world has. He’s been on the cover of Forbes , GQ , Architectural Digest —a dozen images I’ve committed to memory in preparation for this meeting. But in person?

He’s devastating.

The camera didn’t do his eyes justice—sharp, cool green, like polished glass, focused entirely on me. His jaw is cut from stone. And he wears control like a second skin.

“Ms. St. Claire.”

Two words. Okay, three technically—my last name is a mouthful. But that’s all it takes. His voice is smooth. Precise. The kind of voice that makes people scramble to please him and hate themselves for enjoying it. And apparently enough to make my knees forget how to function.

“Mr. Wolfe,” I reply, a little too breathily.

God , he’s—well, there are a dozen words I could use. Imposing. Polished. Power-wrapped-in-a-tailored-suit. But the one that comes to mind?

Unsettling.

Because nothing about Sebastian Wolfe says approachable. He doesn’t rise from the sleek leather chair at the head of the conference table. He just watches me.

“You’re early.”

Not nice to meet you . Not thanks for coming .

I smile tightly. “I always try to be.”

I move to the end of the table opposite him, attempting to walk with the kind of poise that says I belong here , only to clip my heel on thin air. I stumble, overcorrect, and knock my laptop case into the chair. It topples sideways, nearly taking me with it.

I scramble to catch it, bumping the table with my hip in the process. A water glass rattles dangerously close to the edge.

He doesn’t say a word. Just watches me with that unreadable expression.

Heat crawls up the back of my neck as I right the chair and lower myself into it, my movements jerky and way too loud. I fumble with my laptop, willing my hands to stop shaking as I pull the cable from my bag.

This has never happened before. Not like this. I’ve met powerful men. Ridiculously attractive men. I’ve sat across from CEOs and celebrities, pitched high six-figure budgets, handled clients with egos the size of small countries. And yet—none of them made my palms sweat. None of them made my pulse stutter or my thoughts derail just by existing across a table.

Get it together, Genevieve. You are not a teenager with a crush. You are a grown woman. A professional.

A professional who is apparently one prolonged eye contact away from complete neurological failure.

I finally manage to get everything turned on and plugged in. My hands are steady. My brain, less so. But I’m doing it. I’m making it through. I open my downloads folder, ready to launch the presentation.

Click.

The screen behind me flashes to life.

And I die.

Because it’s not my pitch deck on display.

It’s a picture. Of me.

In a sports bra and lacy thong underwear.

Taken at a truly unfortunate angle under fluorescent lighting. Oh God. Oh God.

There’s a moment of silence that stretches just long enough to make me consider packing up and walking right back out the door. Then?—

Sebastian makes a sound. A low hum, maybe a cough. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s amused or simply horrified.

“I—this isn’t—it’s not what it looks like,” I stammer, slapping at the keyboard like that’ll magically erase the mortifying image. “My—my trainer told me to take before photos, and I must’ve accidentally— oh my God ?—”

Somehow, somehow , I get the right file up. The pitch deck appears, and I keep my eyes glued to it like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the Earth.

I do not look at him. My ears burn. I haven’t even started and I’m already spiraling.

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Of course not.”

Not angry. Not amused.

Just...that low, smooth baritone that sounds way too intimate for a glass-walled conference room.

I nod once, sharply, still refusing to meet his eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

“No,” he says, after a beat. “I imagine it won’t.”

Mortification lodges in my throat like a choking hazard. I click into the first slide and launch into my pitch because it’s either that or crawl under the table and live there forever.

I talk. About themes and logistics and curated guest experiences. I talk about layered ambiance, sensory engagement, high-end design. I talk too fast and forget one of my own bullet points and have to circle back with a dry throat and a voice that pitches embarrassingly high.

Through it all, he says nothing. He just watches me. Like he’s dissecting more than my pitch—like he’s analyzing me .

And it’s not fair. Because every word out of my mouth feels increasingly fragile under the weight of that stare, and him? He hasn’t even blinked.

Finally, I make it to the last slide.

I pause. Breathe. Try not to look as desperate for approval as I feel.

He leans back, eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re thorough.”

My stomach swoops. “Thank you.”

“That’s not always a compliment.”

Oh. Okay.

“I meant it as one,” he adds, before I can figure out whether to apologize or defend myself. “You clearly did your research.”

“I always do.”

That earns me a flicker of something. Interest, maybe. Or amusement. It’s hard to tell with him. His face is sculpted into perfect, unreadable calm, like he could tell me he’s impressed or tell me to get the hell out of his conference room in the exact same tone.

And why does that make my insides feel all warm and gooey?

I expect him to respond from his seat, maybe nod, maybe move on to grilling me about budget breakdowns and vendor lead times. But instead, he stands.

My heart stops.

He walks—no, prowls—around the table, every step measured and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unsettle me. When he reaches my side, he leans one hip against the edge of the conference table, arms folding across his chest.

Which unfortunately flexes the sleeve of his perfectly tailored suit just enough to highlight his forearms.

I force myself not to stare.

Too late.

My throat goes dry.

I reach for my coffee, mostly as a defense mechanism. The mug trembles slightly in my hand, but I manage a sip. It's lukewarm, and I wish it were laced with something stronger.

“If I hire you,” he says, voice low and almost conversational, “you’ll need to go down on me to the island beforehand.”

I choke. And immediately spit it back out. All. Over. Him.

It’s a direct hit.

His shirt, his tie, his suit, the pristine folder on the table—everything is now covered in oat milk and medium roast.

He looks down at his clothes. Slowly. Then back at me.

“Oh my God ,” I choke, already fumbling for napkins that don’t exist, my whole body vibrating with panic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I thought you said?—”

His mouth twitches. Just barely. “I’m aware of what I said.”

“I didn’t mean to—I was just?—”

“I imagine that wasn’t intentional.”

“No. I mean—yes. I mean, of course not—” I groan, burying my face in my hands for one full, mortified second. “Oh my God.”

When I peek through my fingers, he’s still there. Unbothered. Unsmiling. And somehow even more handsome. He’s dabbing at his clothes with a cloth he seems to have produced out of thin air . “It was a poor choice of phrasing.”

He glances at the stain spreading across his chest. Then back at me.

I want the floor to swallow me. I want to be buried in it. I want to pretend none of this ever happened.

“Let me try that again,” he says smoothly. “If I hire you, you’ll need to go down to the island with me. Before the event. A walkthrough. Logistics. Client expectations.”

I nod like a bobblehead on a caffeine bender. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m available anytime. Whenever. Wherever.”

Stop talking. Just stop.

He hums again. That same low, infuriating sound.

I gather my things too fast, my laptop cord catching around the table leg. I bend to untangle it, and somehow, somehow , my foot snags on another cable and I trip forward, hands shooting out to catch myself?—

Right onto his very broad chest.

There’s a beat of pure, unfiltered silence. Then I shoot backward so fast I nearly fall again, my cheeks burning, my mouth opening and closing like a broken puppet.

“I—I didn’t mean to?—”

“I would hope not,” he says dryly, adjusting his suit like I didn’t just make full-body contact with his very expensive groin.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or dissolve.

Instead, I mumble something unintelligible and practically bolt for the door.

As soon as I get out the door, I collide full speed with Heather Langley.

She takes one look at me—rumpled, pink-cheeked, visibly sweating—and arches a perfectly sculpted brow.

“Well,” she says, her voice syrupy and smug. “Someone looks flustered.”

Of course she’s here.

Heather Langley has been a thorn in my side since the day I entered this industry. She’s older, more established, and views me as some kind of threat—which would be flattering if she weren’t also the most insufferably condescending woman I’ve ever met. I try not to think of her as a rival, mostly because I don’t have the time or energy for a petty feud. But Heather? She lives for it.

I give her a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Always a pleasure, Heather.”

Her eyes gleam. “Is he still in there?”

I don’t answer. Let her think whatever she wants. I’ve already died of embarrassment once today. I march past her and pull out my phone like it’s a lifeline.

Evie picks up on the first ring. “How’d it go?”

“I died.”

There’s a pause. “Like...metaphorically?”

“I faceplanted into his chest, Evie. After showing him a half-naked photo of myself and then baptizing him in coffee. It’s over .”

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

I groan.

And keep walking.