Page 47 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Silas is quiet for a beat. Then he exhales and says, “You didn’t have to come in today. You could’ve rescheduled.”
“I couldn’t.” My voice cracks. “I couldn’t risk looking unprofessional. Not after…”
Not after Sebastian. Not after the note. Not after being ignored. Definitely not after the last meeting with Silas.
Silas shifts again, this time sliding his chair a little closer. “Hey, look at me.”
I do.
And I hate that my eyes sting.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he says, voice low, steady. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me or Max. You’re already in.”
The kindness in his voice is almost too much.
I nod quickly, eyes on my folder, blinking fast.
He doesn’t push. He just sits there, quiet. Present. And that, somehow, is worse. I can handle pressure. I can handle confrontation. But this—this gentle patience from a man who should be a walking distraction—is unraveling me.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” I say finally, voice thin but audible. “I’m just…adjusting.”
“To what?” he asks, though not unkindly.
Everything. My body. My brain. The truth I haven’t even said out loud yet.
“Life stuff,” I say instead. “It’s complicated.”
Silas nods like he understands more than I’m saying. Maybe he does. He doesn’t push or ask the questions I can’t answer. Instead, he nudges the untouched glass of water toward me, the one the assistant brought in with the coffee service.
I take it. Sip. It helps.
The door opens again and Max steps back inside. He doesn’t sit immediately. Just scans the room, and then me. His gaze lingers.
“We good to continue?”
I force a smile. “Yes. Sorry about earlier. Won’t happen again.”
He nods. Accepts it. But I catch the flicker of something behind his eyes—curiosity maybe. Or concern. I can’t tell.
We finish the rest of the meeting. I find my footing again. Words come easier when there’s structure to hide behind. Planning timelines. Cost projections. Floral installation diagrams. I can recite those in my sleep.
Still, I catch Silas watching me more than once. Not in the way Sebastian used to—with intensity laced with hunger—but with something softer. Worry, maybe. Or intuition.
When the meeting ends, I gather my things slowly, acutely aware of my body again—the ache in my back, the faint pull of nausea.
Max gives a brief nod, distracted by a call already ringing through his earpiece.
Silas walks me to the elevator.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again once we’re out of earshot.
I smile. It’s small, but real. “No.”
He huffs a breath of amusement. “Points for honesty.”
The elevator dings. I step inside, pulse still too fast.
“Thanks for not making a scene,” I say, pressing the button for the lobby.
