Page 98 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Instead, I hesitated.
I froze. I let my silence destroy the last fragile thing between us. And I don’t know if we’ll ever recover from what I just did. The taste of failure is bitter on my tongue.
I didn’t sleep with Heather. I would never. But in the end, I might as well have.
I cross the office in two strides, slamming my hand against the button for the intercom.
"Dom," I bark.
"Yes, sir."
"I want everything on Heather Langley. Background, recent communications, financials. Anything suspicious in the last month, especially the last seventy-two hours. I want to know who she's been talking to, who she's working with, and why the fuck she chose today to show up in my office."
There’s a brief pause.
Then Dom’s voice returns. "Understood."
I kill the line before he can say anything else. Dom knows the standard. Thorough isn’t enough. I want her gutted, professionally speaking. Every weakness exposed, every betrayal catalogued. By the time I’m done, there won’t be a single corner of her world I haven't dismantled.
The suspicion is already gnawing at me. Heather's timing wasn't a coincidence. Someone sent her. Or leveraged her ambition. Either way, the result is the same: Genevieve walking away from me again.
And once again, I have no one to blame but myself.
Only this time, I’m not sure she’ll come back. The thought digs in deep, sharp enough to leave a mark even beneath the armor I've spent a lifetime building.
My spiral is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Three raps. Dom. He doesn’t wait for a response, just steps in. It’s too soon for him to have information on Heather, but the unreadable expression he’s wearing...I know that look. It’s the same one he wears when he’s about to tell me something he knows I’m not going to want to hear.
He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, moving into the room with the kind of cautious precision reserved for volatile situations. I’d be offended if it weren’t an accurate assessment. I’m a ticking time bomb at this point. His hands are at his sides, loose but ready, his face blank in a way that sets every one of my instincts on edge.
I stay where I am, leaning against the desk, arms crossed tightly over my chest. I’ve given him enough space to speak. Whatever it is, he’ll say it. He always does. That’s one of the things I like about Dom. He’s efficient, cutthroat, and he doesn’t sugarcoat bullshit. He speaks truths, even if they’re not what I want to hear.
"Sir," he starts, voice even. "I know you didn’t call me up here to speculate."
I raise an eyebrow, impatient now.
"But I have concerns." He hesitates, weighing the risk of continuing. "About Genevieve. About this situation."
I say nothing.
"The timing is...convenient," he continues carefully. "The pregnancy. Her proximity to Thorne and Whitmore. The optics aren’t great. Especially if this becomes public knowledge."
I let the words hang there, refusing to react immediately. He’s baiting me, intentionally or not, laying out worst-case scenarios the way he’s trained to do. Dom’s job is to spot threats before they become catastrophes. It’s why I keep him close.
But this?
This is different.
"I’m aware of the optics," I say, voice clipped.
Dom shifts his weight slightly.
"I’m not questioning your judgment," he says. "But people in our position...we have enemies. Competitors who would love to weaponize a scandal. A child. Questions about paternity. Allegations of manipulation. It’s the perfect storm."
I study him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until the tension tightens the room around us.
When I speak, my voice is cold enough to frost the air between us.
“Are you implying that I manipulated her into?—”
