Page 66 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
If I didn’t already know her, I’d think this was a game. Billionaire Bingo or some ridiculous gold-digger bullshit. After what happened with Elise, I should be running in the opposite direction.
But I do know her.
I exhale slowly through my nose, reaching for something to hold onto that doesn’t feel like it’s breaking apart in my hands. My thoughts are too fast and too loud. They keep running into walls—timelines, logistics, consequences—but the only thing I can focus on is her.
The silence stretches. No one fills it. Genevieve won’t look away, and neither will I. Her hand is still on her stomach, still trembling. Silas hasn’t moved, but he doesn’t need to. His presence is loud even when he isn’t speaking. He’s waiting for me to say something—decide something—but he won’t push. That’s not how he works.
Commitment has always been a controlled variable in my life. A contract. A structure. Something to be negotiated, not stumbled upon. Even the women I’ve cared about have existed at a safe distance.
She told me before anything happened. She hasn’t asked me to stay. Hasn’t angled for sympathy. No promises, no pleading. Just the facts. She’s pregnant. She’s scared. She’s not asking me for anything. But everything in me knows she deserves more than nothing.
Silas finally breaks the quiet. “You’re overthinking again.”
My head turns slowly toward him. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
He leans back on the armrest, one knee bouncing. “You’re stuck in your head. Always have been. It’s not a crime to feel something, Max.”
“I don’t make decisions based on feelings.”
“No,” he agrees, mouth twitching at the corner, “you make decisions based on risk analysis and self-preservation. But this isn’t a boardroom.”
I say nothing, and that’s enough to draw out his next move.
“She doesn’t need a white knight,” he says, tone easy. “She doesn’t need a rescue plan. She needs someone who sees her. Who stays.”
I glance back at Genevieve, who hasn’t said a word since she dropped her secret into the room and waited for it to explode. She still hasn’t looked away. Not even once.
“She needs someone who won’t walk away,” Silas finishes.
The implication isn’t subtle. But it’s not pressure. It’s not framed as a dare. It’s just Silas, calling things what they are and leaving the choice to me.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. But everything inside me has shifted.
I’ve spent years making careful decisions. I don’t gamble. I don’t indulge. And I don’t attach myself to things I can’t control. This woman? This situation? It’s chaos. A wildfire wrapped in soft skin and the most beautiful eyes.
And yet I’m still standing here, trying to find a way to walk that won’t feel like retreat.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to leave.
She’s still looking at me. Holding her breath. Not because she doesn’t trust me. Because she doesn’t trust herself to believe what she sees.
I cross to her without a word, step between her knees where she sits curled on the edge of Silas’s couch and slide a hand beneath her chin. Her eyes flutter closed at the touch, but she doesn’t pull away. She’s bracing for the drop.
I don’t give it to her.
Instead, I tilt her face up and kiss her.
Not soft. Not cautious. Not slow.
Firm. Certain.Mine.She’s mine.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, mouth parting on a gasp. That sound lodges somewhere deep in my chest and breaks something loose. I angle her head, take more. She gives it. Gives me everything without hesitation, her lips moving against mine with heat and hunger that makes my pulse surge.
Behind us, Silas shifts. I feel the cushion dip, his weight pressing in beside her, his voice near my ear. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
Genevieve makes a soft, muffled noise when Silas slides a hand along her thigh, up and up until he reaches her waistband and then starts his descent, leggings and panties in hand. My mouth moves to her jaw, then lower, tasting the curve of her throat while Silas captures her mouth in another kiss. She gasps again, the sound caught between us.
Her hands are shaking. Not from fear. From need.
