Page 119 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
"I do," I whisper against his shirt. "I love you, too."
When we finally pull apart, Max clears his throat and nudges me toward another display—this one full of baby carriers and diaper bags and endless practical things I hadn’t even begun to think about yet.
"Come on, baby," he says, squeezing my hand. "We’ve got a lot of decisions to make."
* * *
I should have known the happy little bubble wouldn’t last. As we’re leaving the store, arms full of shopping bags, I hear a sound that makes my stomach lurch.
"Genevieve Elise St. Claire."
I stop mid-step. Max turns with me, his posture going rigid at my side. I already know what I’ll see before I lift my head.
My mother stands a few feet away, dressed impeccably in a cream wool coat, her hair swept up in a chignon so tight it looks painful. She holds a small, tasteful shopping bag in one hand and judgment in the other. Her mouth is pressed into a thin, disapproving line, her eyes raking over me, over Max, over the bags we’re carrying. Her gaze snags on the logo of the baby boutique, and there’s a beat of silence so thick it presses down on my chest.
"Shopping for a gift?" she asks, her tone deceptively pleasant.
Max shifts closer to me, his hand brushing the small of my back in silent support.
I straighten my posture. "No. It’s for me."
For a second, she doesn’t react. Then something flickers across her face—disbelief, horror, maybe both. She glances down at my stomach, then back up at me, as if trying to solve a math equation she never thought she’d have to work through.
"You’re pregnant," she says, not a question. A condemnation.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to hold her gaze. "Yes."
"And he’s—?" She flicks her hand toward Max dismissively.
I tighten my grip on the shopping bags, the plastic biting into my palm. "Mother, this is Max Thorne.”
Max says hello and holds out his hand. My mother shakes it daintily.
“The baby isn’t Max’s. Or Silas’s."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Silas Whitmore?" she repeats, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You’re involved with both of them?"
Max’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t speak. He lets me handle it, the way we agreed, the way I need to.
I nod once. “Yes.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again, at a rare loss for words. I can see the calculations happening behind her eyes—what this means for the family, for her reputation, for the carefully curated image she’s spent her entire life constructing.
"You stupid, selfish girl," she finally hisses, her voice low enough that it doesn’t draw attention, but vicious enough to leave no doubt about the intent behind it. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You’ve humiliated us. You’ve humiliated yourself."
I blink, stunned by the sheer venom in her tone. Not surprised—never surprised—but still, somehow, cut by it.
I lift my chin, willing the tremor in my hands to still. "I’m not ashamed of my life. Or who I love."
Her nostrils flare. "You don’t love them. You’re desperate. Desperate for attention. For validation. Is that what this is about? You couldn’t find a respectable husband, so you threw yourself at the first men stupid enough to pity you?"
The words hit harder than any slap. I feel the blood drain from my face, the familiar rush of humiliation clawing its way up my throat. But I don’t break. I won’t give her that satisfaction.
"You don’t know anything about me," I say, my voice steady even though my heart is threatening to pound its way out of my chest. "You never have."
Her eyes narrow. "I know you’re throwing your life away. On a bastard child that doesn’t even have a real father. On two men who will tire of you the second the novelty wears off."
"Enough," Max growls.
