Page 102 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
"You must be Genevieve," Naomi says once we reach the living room. Her tone is cool but not outright hostile. Yet.
Gen offers a polite smile and extends her hand. "It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.
"Funny, I’ve heard nothing about you.” Naomi takes Gen’s hand briefly before releasing it as if touching it any longer might contaminate her. The entire exchange lasts less than two seconds, but it tells me everything I need to know.
This is going to be a fucking disaster.
Robert King, Naomi’s husband enters from another room. He’s tall and spare, with a narrow frame and a perfectly tailored suit. He briefly shakes Gen’s hand. A nod to Silas. A tighter one to me. No words beyond what’s absolutely necessary.
It’s clear he’s here to play referee, not participant.
"Shall we?" Naomi says, already turning on her heel to lead us toward the dining room.
The table is set formally—polished silverware, starched linen napkins, the kind of place settings that are far too formal for family.
Gen sits between Silas and me, her posture perfect, her hands folded in her lap, every inch of her radiating restraint. I hate this.
Naomi pours herself a glass of wine, ignoring the server standing discreetly nearby to do it for her. Power move. Everything tonight is going to be a power move.
“I’d offer you a glass, but I’m not sure you’re old enough to drink.”
“Twenty-four is plenty old enough, Naomi. You’re being petty and it doesn’t suit you,” Silas tells her flatly.
Gen looks shell-shocked. I obviously didn’t prepare her for this because I really hoped this wouldn’t happen.
Once we’re all seated, Naomi folds her hands neatly on the table and smiles—an expression so devoid of real warmth it could chill a room by ten degrees.
"So," she says, her tone light but razor-sharp, "tell me, Genevieve. How exactly did you meet my brother?"
Gen hesitates just a fraction of a second. Then: “We met through Sebastian Wolfe. He hired me as the event planner for his Elysian Cove launch.”
At the mention of his name, Naomi’s smile thins even further. "Sebastian," she repeats, drawing out the word. "Of course he did."
Robert clears his throat softly, the sound deliberate. Naomi waves him off with a small flick of her hand.
"And from professional admiration, what? Things escalated?" she asks, voice syrupy.
Gen holds her gaze, not backing down. "We got to know each other. Things happened naturally."
"And now you’re here," Naomi muses, picking up her wine glass. "Entwined with two men old enough to know better."
Gen flinches.
I clench my jaw so hard my molars grind together.
Gen straightens in her seat, her chin lifting. "What’s your real question, Naomi?"
Naomi’s eyes glitter, pleased. She sets her wine glass down with a deliberate clink. "My real question is simple: what do you want?"
It’s not asked in curiosity. It’s an accusation.
Gen doesn't answer immediately. She exhales slowly through her nose, a tiny, measured sound, and when she speaks, her voice is clear.
"I want what anyone would want," she says. "Respect. Stability. A place to build a life."
Naomi’s fake smile returns. "How noble."
The first course arrives—something pretentious and French—but no one reaches for their utensils. The tension sits heavy between us, more fragrant than the scent of the food wafting from the plates.
