Page 42 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
What if this isn’t about my work at all? What if I’m just a favor passed around between friends? A name dropped in a group chat. A warm body with a decent portfolio. A pat on the back between men who trade women like business cards. Something to entertain, then discard. The humiliation curdles hot in my chest, climbing fast and sharp.
I stumble—just slightly—but enough for Silas to notice.
“Whoa,” Silas says, steadying me with a hand on my elbow. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod too fast again. “Yes. Sorry. Just—clumsy.”
His eyes scan my face, concern tightening the space between his brows. “You’re pale.”
“I just—didn’t sleep well.” It’s not a lie. Not really. My brain hasn’t shut off since Sebastian left. Since the note.
And now here I am, standing in front of one of his best friends, trying to keep my footing while every alarm in my body starts to scream.
This is exactly why I need to get it together. Shut this down. Refocus. Now.
Silas has a bit of a reputation—a very different one from Sebastian Wolfe. He’s a flirt, a charmer, and a serial monogamist. And me? I just lost my virginity to a man who made me swear I belonged to him yet didn’t even have the decency to drop me face-to-face.
I can’t afford to fall into that trap again. Especially if it’s a setup of some kind.
But there’s something different about this.
I consider the way Silas looks at me. He doesn’t push or seem to expect anything. He doesn’t seem to be playing a game at all.
If thisisa setup—if this is part of some unspoken, unholy bachelor’s club—I’m starting to think it’s not the kind I’ve ever encountered before.
We reach the event floor, and I do my best to focus. Silas walks me through the space—the layout, the lighting options, the seating chart ideas he’s considering for the gala. He makes jokes, tells stories about past events that went sideways, asks for my opinion and actually listens when I give it. He’s engaged. Present. Easy to talk to.
And when we circle back toward the tasting setup, he reaches for a plate of prosciutto-wrapped figs, offers one to me with a grin, and says, “Just don’t throw it at me if you hate it.”
I smile, a real one this time, softer than I mean it to be. Our fingers brush as I take the fig, and something in the air shifts. His eyes drop to my mouth. Mine to his.
It’s not a move, not really. It’s a pause—curious, warm, electric. His gaze lingers like he’s waiting for a sign or an invitation.
I think I might give it to him.
And then the room tilts.
My stomach flips. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges.
I take one step back. Then another. Then I sprint to the trash can in the corner and throw up everything I ate this morning.
Mortification burns hotter than the fever in my cheeks. I slump over the trash can, eyes watering, throat raw, praying for the earth to open and swallow me whole.
This is it. Career over. Dignity gone. He’s going to walk out. He’s going to tell everyone I’m a disaster. I’m going to have to move to a remote mountain village and sell woven baskets.
A warm hand lands on my back.
“Okay,” Silas says, voice low and calm. “That’s one way to say you’re not feeling the menu.”
I cough and let out a weak, horrified laugh. “I am so sorry—this is—I don’t know what’s wrong with me?—”
“You’re sick.” His hand stays steady as he crouches beside me. “And you shouldn’t have come in. But since you did, I’m not letting you Uber home and pass out in your entryway.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, trying to sit up. “I just need a minute?—”
“Genevieve.” His voice softens. “No more pretending. You’re not okay. And that’s okay.”
Something in me cracks at the gentle way he says it.
