Page 106 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
“Max—” she starts, reaching for some invisible thread of authority she no longer holds.
“No,” he cuts her off, sharper this time. “We’re leaving.”
Without giving her another glance, he turns and gestures for me to move ahead of him. Silas falls into step on my other side, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The protective hand he places on my forearm says everything.
We walk away from the table without a backward glance.
I tighten my fingers around the small clutch in my hand, willing myself not to falter as we cross the threshold of the front door and step back into the cool night air. The sky overhead is deep and velvet black, scattered with faint stars.
For a moment, we simply stand there on the wide front steps, the tension bleeding off us in waves.
I glance up at Max. His jaw is still tight, his posture rigid with the aftershocks of anger he rarely allows anyone to see. Silas exhales a long, slow breath, his hand never once leaving my arm.
I reach for them both, curling my fingers lightly into Max’s sleeve, brushing the edge of Silas’s jacket with my other hand. A silent thank you.
Without a word, Max presses a hand to the small of my back and guides me down the steps toward the waiting car.
We’re done here.
We’re going home.
Chapter31
Sebastian
The door to her office is locked. But I know she’s in there.
I stand there longer than I should, my hand still pressed to the handle, absorbing the fact that she’s really on the other side of it—aware I’m here—and still refusing to open it. A smarter man would walk away. But I just can’t.
I could force the door. I could rip the damn thing off its hinges if I wanted to. But I already broke too many things when I pushed her away, and kicking down a door isn’t going to fix what really matters.
Instead, I pull out my phone and fire off a text.Please open the door.
I wait. Thirty seconds. A full minute. Nothing.
I’m not asking for anything. Just a chance to talk.
Still nothing.
The urge to slam my fist through the nearest wall is strong. Instead, I exhale through my nose and turn, forcing every muscle in my body back under control. Losing it now would be useless. Worse—it would prove her right to lock me out.
I should call Dom. Focus on something I can control. Hunt down whoever pulled Heather’s strings and make sure they regret it. That’s the part I’m good at—tearing things apart until nothing’s left but the truth. But even as I think it, I know it’s a delay tactic. A distraction. The truth that matters most is standing behind that door, choosing not to open it.
But then my phone buzzes. A calendar notification—an alert Dom set without asking.
Doctor's appointment. 3:15 PM.
Perfect.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing in the fluorescent-lit lobby of the OB’s office, ignoring the curious glances from the receptionist. My gaze scans the waiting room until it lands on her. Genevieve.
Max and Silas are here, too. Of course. With their attention focused entirely on her, it takes them a moment to notice my presence. Their heads lift at the same time when they finally spot me.
They both stare at me as if they want to rip my head off. The hostility bleeding from them is enough to stop most men in their tracks.
I’m not most men.
Genevieve watches me as I cross the waiting room. She appears composed, but her hands betray her—clutching the edge of the chair hard enough that her knuckles turn white.
