Page 134 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I still.
My fork clatters against the plate.
"What’s wrong?" Max asks, voice sharper than necessary.
I press a hand to my stomach, heart pounding.
"Nothing," I whisper. "I think…I think the baby just kicked."
For a second, no one moves.
Then Max is on his knees in front of me, both hands gently framing my stomach. Silas crowds in from one side, Sebastian from the other, their expressions suspended somewhere between awe and terror.
We wait.
Seconds stretch into what feels like hours.
Then, there—a soft, unmistakable thud against my palm.
Max lets out a choked laugh. A shit-eating smile takes over Silas’s face.
Sebastian has to turn away for a second, his shoulders rigid with the effort to hold himself together.
When he finally turns back, his eyes are glassy.
He presses a kiss just above my navel, his hand trembling slightly where it rests against me.
"I can't believe I almost lost this," he murmurs against my skin.
“But you didn’t, baby…you didn’t,” I reply, running my fingers through his hair and letting the tears stream down my face.
* * *
By the time we leave the store, I’m exhausted in the best way.
Max somehow turns even the most mundane errands into something intense but fun. We spent almost an hour debating crib sheets—he argued that the baby would obviously prefer dinosaurs over neutral pastels, and I countered that dinosaurs didn’t match the aesthetic we were building. In the end, we compromised with a set that had tiny golden crowns stitched along the edges.
It felt easy.
Normal.
So, of course it goes to shit.
I catch a glimpse of her before Max does. A flash of platinum hair, a designer coat draped carelessly over one shoulder. Heather.
"Well, well," she drawls, surveying me with thinly veiled contempt. "You’re really milking this, huh?"
I stiffen instinctively, but Max moves faster, stepping between us like a wall. His voice is deadly calm.
"Walk away, Heather."
For a moment, I think she might. But Heather’s never been good at knowing when she’s already lost.
Instead, she tips her head, her gaze sliding deliberately down to my belly.
"You sure you even know who the father is?" she purrs, feigning innocence. "Or are you just collecting men like trophies?"
The heat that rushes to my face isn’t shame—it’s rage.
