Page 132 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Sebastian finds out first. He walks into my office, glances at the contract sitting open on my desk, and lets out a low, incredulous laugh.
"You bought a whole magazine?" he asks, eyebrows climbing halfway to his hairline.
I shrug, leaning back in my chair and propping my feet on the desk. "Just taking care of the problem."
Max shows up a few minutes later, reads the email thread over Sebastian’s shoulder, and chokes on his coffee. "You’re a goddamn lunatic," he says, grinning wide.
"Yeah, but you love me anyway," I say, tossing a stress ball at his head. He catches it easily before it hits him, shaking his head.
We’re still laughing about it when Genevieve walks in.
She freezes just inside the doorway, eyes darting between the three of us, instantly suspicious. She always knows when we’re hiding something. Sharp little thing.
"What’s going on?" she asks, curious.
Sebastian bites back another laugh. Max, to his credit, tries for a straight face. Neither one of them volunteers.
So, I stand up, cross the room, and tip her chin up with two fingers. "Handled a little situation for you, baby girl."
Her brows furrow, the beginnings of a frown tugging at her mouth. "What kind of ‘situation’?"
I grin, wicked and a little too proud of myself. "Bought a magazine."
She blinks. "Youwhat?"
"Bought the company," I say, pretending to dust imaginary lint off my shoulder. "They had an article ready to go. A real nasty one. So, I made sure it’ll never see daylight."
Her mouth drops open. She stares at me like I’ve just told her I wrestled a bear for fun.
"You bought a whole magazine?" she repeats, voice high and a little hysterical. “To kill an article?”
I fight back a laugh and dip my head closer to hers, lowering my voice so only she can hear. "I’d buy the whole damn media industry if it meant keeping you safe."
Her breath catches as she sways a toward me, her fingers curling into my shirt.
Max coughs behind us. “Jesus, Silas.”
Sebastian just shakes his head, muttering something about needing a drink.
But Genevieve doesn’t move away. She stays right there, in my space, staring up at me like I’ve just rewritten the laws of gravity.
I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Ten times over. A hundred. It doesn’t matter how many zeros it takes.
I smooth my hand over her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re ours to protect, Genevieve. End of story.”
Her hands fist tighter in my shirt for half a second before she pulls back, blinking fast, trying to pretend she’s not seconds away from crying. She’s stubborn like that. Proud. Doesn’t want us to see the cracks, even when we already know exactly where they are.
She bites her bottom lip, hard enough to leave a dent, and I know she’s losing the fight. So, I do what I always do. I make it easy for her.
I loop an arm around her waist and steer her toward the couch. "C’mere, baby. Sit before you fall over."
She huffs a tiny laugh—more breath than sound—but she lets me guide her, lets Max drop down beside her, lets Sebastian lower himself onto the other side of him.
It’s a sight, the four of us crammed onto this massive sectional, Genevieve tucked between Max and me, Sebastian lounging close enough to reach her if he wants to.
The TV plays in the background—some mindless cooking show none of us are really watching. But the sounds fill the space.
Max teases her about craving weird food. Sebastian says something about buying out an entire maternity line because she deserves better clothes than whatever sad excuses for leggings she’s been wearing lately. I get a pillow thrown at my head when I suggest designing a stroller that shoots flame throwers to keep the paparazzi at bay.
