Page 131 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I try to slide the letter away, but he’s already seen too much. His hand covers mine, halting the motion.
"It’s nothing," I say, too fast.
Max doesn’t call me on it. He just shifts closer, gently tugging me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me.
"They don’t get to have an opinion on our happiness," he says, voice rough with conviction. "Not now. Not ever."
I close my eyes against the hot prick of tears. Breathe him in—clean soap, warm skin. He always smells like safety. Like home.
I want to believe him. I want to carve those words into my skin until they overwrite everything else—the doubt, the shame, the endless, gnawing fear that somehow, I’m not enough for all of this. For them.
"I’m fine," I lie against his chest.
Max doesn’t argue. He just tightens his hold, pressing a kiss to my temple before letting me go.
Later, after dinner, when the loft is filled with the soft hum of low music and the golden spill of light from the kitchen, I feel them all around me.
Silas is sprawled on the couch, reading a book and pretending not to watch me over the rim of his glasses.
Sebastian is leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled, jaw tight with whatever storm he’s managing behind those calculating eyes.
Max, always steady, always patient, is setting up the new bassinet with a quiet diligence. He pauses to adjust one of the bars, frowning slightly in concentration, like this task—the smallest, most mundane thing—is the most important thing he’s ever done.
I belong here.
Even when my mind tries to convince me otherwise. Even when old fears whisper that I’m too much or not enough. Even when the world outside claws at the edges of what we’re building.
Here, in this moment, I am theirs.
And they are mine. And that is worth fighting for.
Chapter41
Silas
There’s only so much a man can take before he stops playing nice.
The moment some sleazy tabloid ran a headline questioning the paternity of Genevieve’s baby—spinning theories about her manipulating three billionaires at once—I knew we were past the point of semi-polite phone calls and carefully-worded legal threats. We were intohandling itterritory.
So, I did what any self-respecting, questionably patient man would do.
I handled it.
First order of business: unleash the lawyers. Cease-and-desist letters, drafted with all the ferocity of a pack of rabid wolves, hit inboxes across the media world before lunch. I made damn sure every word carried the right message: tread carefully or we’ll bury you so deep you’ll need a damn archaeological dig to recover your reputation.
Second order of business: counterattack. Max's PR team crafted a statement—short, sweet, razor-sharp—that made it clear Genevieve wasn’t some scheming little upstart who stumbled into our lives. She’s the center of it. Our choice. Our future. Our damn heart.
But the real fun started when a media friend of mine leaked word that a certain article—one particularly vicious, invasive piece of trash—was scheduled to run in one of the bigger tabloids by the weekend.
I didn’t wait for permission.
I bought the damn magazine.
I called my lawyer, told him to draw up the paperwork, wire the funds, make it legal before the ink could dry on that dumpster fire of an article. It wasn’t even hard. Money talks, and when you throw enough of it around, people scramble to listen.
They sold it without a second thought.
One wire transfer later, and every dirty word that they planned to print was dead in the water.
