Page 100 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I let the silence stretch, waiting her out. Naomi thrives on confrontation, but she doesn’t enjoy being forced to start the conversation. It irritates her.
Good.
Maybe it’ll slow her down.
"You’re a hard man to get a hold of these days," she says finally, her voice icy.
"Busy quarter," I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
She arches a brow. "Busy playing house, from what I hear."
My jaw tightens instinctively, but I don’t rise to the bait. Not yet. Naomi’s information is never casual. If she’s bringing up Genevieve, it’s because she’s already decided she doesn’t approve.
She moves further into the room, bypassing the chair across from my desk to perch on the edge instead, crossing her legs neatly at the ankle. A calculated move. Casual but dominant. She’s framing herself in my line of sight, daring me to ignore her.
"I've heard things," she says lightly, inspecting her manicure. "Rumors. Whispers."
"Rumors," I repeat, noncommittal.
"About you. And Silas. And some...child," she says, the disdain in her voice as subtle as an elephant.
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on the desk. "Careful," I say, voice low. "You’re two seconds from pissing me off."
Naomi smiles, all fake polished grace. "I'm concerned, Max. You’re a public figure. You’ve spent a decade building something impeccable. Now there’s talk of you and Silas sharing a girl young enough to be your intern. It’s beneath you.”
The words slice clean through the controlled calm I’ve been holding onto. I feel the anger rise in my chest.
Genevieve isn’t a rumor.
She’s not some strategic mistake.
She’s the first real thing I've let myself reach for in years.
And Naomi, for all her brilliance, doesn’t get to reduce her to a headline.
"You don’t know her," I say. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"I don’t need to," Naomi replies coolly. "I know the world we live in. And I know the second this gets out, the vultures will circle. They won’t just tear into her—they’ll tear into you and this company, into every charitable function Silas has lined up. They'll drag that girl through the mud and back again. And for what? A fling?"
The word lands wrong. Too shallow. Too cruel.
"It’s not a fling," I say, voice steady but colder than I intended.
Naomi’s gaze sharpens. She wasn’t expecting me to defend it. To defend Genevieve.
For a moment, real concern flickers behind her eyes.
"Then you need to prove it," she says. "To me. To the public. To everyone who matters."
I stare at her, weighing the demand. Naomi isn’t asking for herself. She’s asking because she knows the rules of our world, the way public image can make or destroy fortunes. She thinks she’s protecting me. In her mind, this is an intervention.
But I would burn this world down to keep Genevieve. I don’t care about public opinion. I care about her.
"Tonight," she adds, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. "Dinner. You, Silas, the girl. Eight o’clock at my home."
It’s not a request. And I cannot refuse.
I exhale slowly through my nose, keeping my face blank. Agreeing to this feels wrong—exposing Gen to Naomi’s scrutiny when she’s already bruised from everything with Sebastian. But if I refuse, Naomi will only push harder. I know my sister well…
