Page 89 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
The wreckage I left scattered across the last twenty-four hours follows me no matter how far I run. Not that I’m running. They’re coming. Here. Today. Soon. Fuck.
I pace. Twelve steps to the window. Twelve steps back. I should be working, preparing for tomorrow’s meetings or the board call scheduled in two hours, but none of it registers. None of it matters. My mind keeps dragging me back to her. To the slow, devastating realization that Genevieve is carrying my child.
Ours.
Not Silas’s. Not Max’s. Mine.
The fact should bring clarity. A clear objective. A path forward. But it doesn’t. It twists in my chest, a low, gnawing thing that threatens to tear me apart from the inside out.
I’ve spent my entire life building structures—controlling outcomes, minimizing risk, eliminating threats before they could take root. And somehow, the greatest threat to the life I’ve built slipped under my defenses with nothing more than a shy smile and a soft laugh.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, the bruised tenderness where Silas hit me a dull throb under my fingertips. A fitting reminder. One I deserve.
No matter how many times I rerun the timeline, the facts don’t change. I walked away from her before she could become a weakness I couldn’t afford.
Every excuse I’ve leaned on for the last two months crumbled under the weight of seeing her. Under the brutal certainty that no matter how far I ran, some part of me had already been claimed.
And I gave it away without a fight.
The thought should make me furious. And it does. But the rage isn’t clean or sharp, the way I’m used to wielding it. It’s messy. Self-inflicted. I’m angry at her for moving on, furious at Silas and Max for stepping into a space they had no right to touch—but mostly, I’m drowning in a quiet, vicious rage at myself. For leaving. For making it so easy for them to take what I should have fought for.
I’m angry.
I’m happy.
I’m fucking confused.
I’m not prepared for this. I wasn’t prepared for how much I would still want her, not when I did everything I could to lose her. And now she’s stuck with me when I’m the very last thing she wants. Because I didn’t leave her alone. I didn’t just abandonher. I left her pregnant and alone, and she’s going to walk into this building with two men who would burn the world down to keep her. These are two men who are not me.
The clock on the wall ticks past eleven-fifty. Ten minutes. I check my reflection in the dark glass of the windows, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt, straightening the line of my jacket. Anything to make me look like I’m not losing every little bit of my sanity.
I might have lost the upper hand with her, but I won't lose it here.
Dom steps in first, his expression as unreadable as always. He nods once to me. They're here.
I don't acknowledge him beyond a glance. My focus is already narrowing, locking down into the cold, calculated place where emotions don't interfere. Where strategy rules.
My office isn’t exactly neutral ground, but it’s three against one, and I need all the power I can get.
I glance down at my hands. They’re steady. Good.
Outwardly, I look calm. Inwardly, every nerve is stretched to the breaking point, the need to move, to act, to fix surging through me with enough force to make my muscles ache.
I close my eyes for a moment, just long enough to shove the emotion back where it belongs, sealing it behind walls too thick for even her to breach.
When I open them, the door is swinging wider.
It’s time.
Genevieve steps through first, framed by the harsh light of the hallway. She’s dressed simply—black leggings, an oversized sweater that swallows her frame—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing can conceal her beauty.
Max and Silas flank her. Silas keeps a hand on her back. It’s a claim laid bare without a single word. Max brushes his fingers against her arm as they cross the threshold, his touch lingering in a way that makes my teeth grind. The two of them move around her instinctively, shepherding her forward, shielding her as if they expect me to attack.
I see it all. Every detail. Every touch. Every flinch. The way Genevieve shifts subtly closer to Max when my gaze hits her. The way her fingers curl into the hem of her sweater. The way her eyes dart past me for a fraction of a second before she locks them in place, refusing to meet mine.
They’re protecting her.
From me.
