Page 55 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Support.
The word echoes as I walk out of the office with a paper in my hand and a hollow ache in my chest. There’s no one waiting for me in the lobby. No excited partner. No curious family member. Just me. And a new, more complicated version of my life.
Outside, the light feels too bright. I blink up at the sky and try not to cry. I fail.
I haven’t told Evie how bad the fatigue’s gotten. Or how some days, brushing my teeth feels impossible. Or how every time I think about my future, all I see is the outline of a man who won’t call me back and the shadow of a baby I don’t know how to raise.
I want to believe I can do this on my own.
I want to believe that being abandoned this early in the process doesn’t mean I’m already failing.
But the truth is—I don’t feel strong. I feel small. And very scared.
And I feel alone.
Except I’m not. Not really.
Because Evie is waiting. She’s sitting in her car in a fire zone, legs curled up on the passenger seat, a coffee in each hand, and a death glare for anyone who looks at her funny. She doesn’t ask questions when I slide into the front seat. She just hands me the coffee with the extra sugar and rests her hand over mine the whole ride home.
Because Silas—Silas has become a constant. Sweet. Steady. Relentless in the softest way. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry. But he’s always there. With texts. With food. With jokes that almost make me forget I’m falling apart inside.
He’s turned up on my doorstep twice in the past week. Once with fresh-baked bread. Once with a playlist of “Songs scientifically proven to lower your cortisol levels” and a six-pack of mineral water. He never stays long. He just stays long enough to remind me that someone sees me. That someone is still showing up.
And right now, that matters more than I want to admit.
Max keeps checking in with polite but loaded questions. It seems like he’s offering support even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what’s actually going on. The man is too observant, though. He definitely seessomething.
After I get home, I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the edge of my bed for a long time. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just sit, holding the appointment summary in my hands like it might give me answers if I stare long enough.
It doesn’t.
But eventually, I stand.
And when I reach for my phone, I don’t think. I don’t talk myself out of it.
I just open the text thread I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Not Sebastian’s.
Silas’s.
Me:Are you home?
Silas:Just got here. What’s up?
Me:Can I come over?
There’s a pause. Half a beat. Then?—
Silas:Door’s already unlocked.
* * *
Silas lives in a converted warehouse in Dumbo. Of course he does. It suits him in ways I can't even begin to explain. It's a little trendy, but I like it.
He opens the door before I can knock.
His eyes sweep over me—my oversized hoodie, the leggings I wore to the appointment, the tired set of my mouth—and he doesn’t ask a thing. Just steps back and says, “Come in.”
