Page 49 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I step inside, careful not to bump the walls with the bags. Her place smells faintly of lavender and citrus—clean, lived-in, undeniably her.
She’s barefoot, dressed in a worn T-shirt and leggings that hang a little too loose on her frame. Her hair is pulled back in a lopsided knot, and her eyes are rimmed with the kind of red that only comes from wiping away tears you don’t want anyone to see.
It hits me square in the chest.
She leads me to the kitchen, where I unload everything across her counter like I’m about to host a tasting. “Didn’t know what you’d want,” I say, unpacking boxes. “So I figured volume over precision.”
“You realize this is enough to feed a small army, right?”
“Perfect. I eat for two when I’m stressed.”
She smiles. It’s small, a little frayed at the edges. But it’s there.
That’s a start.
“Pick your poison,” I say, stepping back to let her scan the spread.
She hesitates, glancing behind her like she’s not sure letting me in was a good idea. I don’t blame her. If someone showed up to my place uninvited with half of Manhattan’s takeout scene, I’d probably call security.
“Silas, I appreciate this. Really. But you didn’t have to?—”
“I know.” My voice softens. “That’s why I did it.”
She blinks again. This time, it looks like she’s trying not to cry.
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair and grab two plates. “Okay. One bite of everything. Then we can sit, pretend this is normal, and you can lie to my face about how fine you are. Deal?”
She exhales a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I get that a lot.”
We sit at her small kitchen table, elbows bumping, plates overloaded. She picks at a few bites, more out of politeness than hunger. I do most of the talking—something about my last board meeting, the gala menu revisions, a brief tangent about the time I got food poisoning before a televised interview and powered through with an IV drip backstage.
She listens. Smiles when she thinks I’m being extra—which, to be fair, I am. I keep it light. Keep it steady.
But I’m watching her. Always watching.
Because beneath the smile and the soft laugh, her eyes are glassy and her hands shake just enough to make my chest ache.
Something is wrong.
And I’m not leaving until I know what.
She sets her fork down and pushes what’s left of her pasta around the plate with her thumb, shoulders sinking just enough to signal surrender. Not a dramatic collapse. Just the kind of subtle unraveling you only notice when you’re really looking.
“I’m sorry,” she says after a long pause, her voice quiet. “You came all the way over here and I can’t even pretend to be normal.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” I say, and I mean it. “It's not like you invited me.”
She exhales like that’s the worst thing I could have said. Her hands come up to press against her eyes, elbows on the table, shoulders curling inward. “I don’t even know how to talk about it.”
“Then don’t,” I offer gently. “You don’t owe me anything, Gen. You don’t mind if I call you Gen, right? I just...wanted to make sure you ate. And maybe make you smile. Anything beyond that is a bonus.”
She’s silent for a beat. Then she drops her hands and leans back, staring at the ceiling like maybe she’ll find answers there. Her throat moves on a swallow. Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt.
And then, so softly I almost miss it, “I’m pregnant.”
