Page 38 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
He doesn’t answer. Before I can push further, Sebastian walks in.
He’s a shadow in a bespoke suit, cutting through the low light with precision. No smile. No warmth. Just presence. Controlled and severe, the kind of man who makes everyone in a room sit up a little straighter.
He doesn’t scan for us. Doesn’t check his phone. Just walks straight to our table and slides into the seat between me and Max like he hasn’t been dodging our texts for the last five days.
“Didn’t think you were coming,” I say.
“You were wrong.”
“You’re late.”
“I wasn’t aware I owed you punctuality.”
“You don’t,” I say, watching him closely. “But the silence these last few days? That feels like avoidance.”
Max doesn’t say anything. He just watches him with his typical analytical stare.
Sebastian flags the server down with a nod and orders a bourbon—neat, of course—and turns his gaze out to the skyline as if we’re not staring at him. His voice is smooth, his posture relaxed, but everything about him feels tight. Restrained. Controlled in a way that means he’s not.
Max keeps studying him in that quiet, clinical way of his. The way he always does when he suspects something’s off and hasn’t decided whether to dig or wait.
I lean back. “So. Genevieve St. Claire.”
His eyes cut to mine. I can see the wall go up immediately. Interesting. “What about her?”
“She’s on my calendar tomorrow.”
“She’s capable.”
“That’s all?”
Sebastian doesn’t answer right away. He lifts his drink when it arrives, takes a slow sip, then sets it back down.
“I recommended her, didn’t I?”
“That tells me exactly nothing.”
He sighs and gives me a look that would flatten a mere mortal. “She executed a high-pressure event with almost no prep time and exceeded every metric I laid out. That’s what matters.”
Max’s brow lifts slightly. “That’s not what you said when you recommended her.”
“I don’t recall waxing poetic.”
“You referred to her as ‘fucking excellent’,” I remind him. “And now you’re talking like she’s a spreadsheet.”
Another pause. Another sip.
“She is excellent,” he concedes. “Doesn’t mean I want to sit around dissecting her skillset.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You always go cold when you’re hiding something.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicks to mine. “I go cold when I’m bored, Silas.”
“Are you?” Max asks.
Sebastian shrugs. “Not yet.”
Which tells me everything.
