Page 90 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I force my body into stillness, planting my hands on the desk behind me. I don’t trust myself to move. I can’t. Not when every instinct is tearing at the leash, screaming to tear Silas’s hand from her back, to shove Max halfway across the room just for the way he’s looking at her.
Mine.
The word burns through my bloodstream, searing everything in its path.
But she’s not, not anymore.
She’s theirs now.
And it’s my fault.
I drove her straight into the arms of the only two men who know the real me. Baby or not, I’ll never be able to escape her. I deserve the slow burn torture after what I did to her.
I don't miss the way they both glance at each other before guiding her to the chairs arranged across from my desk. Coordinated. Protective.
Possessive.
Genevieve sits between them without hesitation, her knees brushing against Max’s, her shoulder nearly touching Silas’s. A unit. A front. A barrier.
I can’t fucking breathe.
I want to tear the room apart. I want to drag her away from them, pull her into my lap, bury my face in her neck until the world dissolves around us. I want to feel her body soften against mine, hear her say my name the way she used to—soft, trusting, full of something I have no right to claim anymore.
But I don't move.
They don't deserve her.
Neither do I.
But that doesn't change the fact that I want her.
I clear my throat. "Thank you for coming."
Genevieve doesn’t look at me. Her gaze fixes somewhere over my shoulder, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"We need to discuss custody," I say, my voice flat, clinical. Businesslike.
Genevieve flinches, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it.
Max’s jaw tightens. Silas leans forward slightly. And me? I try to breathe evenly and look like I’m not tearing apart at the seams.
I ignore them both, keeping my focus locked on Genevieve. She’s still avoiding my eyes, her hands white-knuckled in her lap. Every instinct I have screams to reach across the desk, to grab her wrists, to force her to look at me, but I know it would only push her farther away.
"I’m not here to take anything from you," I assure her. "But we need a plan."
Genevieve exhales slowly. She leans back into her seat, her body pressing subtly toward Max, seeking the physical reassurance of him there beside her. It’s a small movement, a tiny betrayal, and it tears through me with brutal efficiency.
I push the reaction down. Again.
"You’ll be involved," she says, her tone carefully neutral. Measured. The same way I would speak to a hostile contractor or uncooperative client.
Not the way she used to speak to me.
"You'll be part of the baby's life," she continues, voice steady but detached. "But I decide what happens to me. I decide what happens to my body."
I nod once, sharp and short. That was never in question. I want her, but not through force. Never through force.
"And after the baby is born?" I press.
