Page 45 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I stand. My limbs feel heavy. I grab my phone, fingers numb, and open the thread I swore I wouldn’t open again.
Me: Thank you for the referrals. I hope you’ve been well.
No response.
I stare at the screen. My thumb hovers. Then?—
Me:I need to speak with you. It’s important.
I watch the little “read” notification flash beneath the message.
And then…nothing.
No reply. No call. Just silence.
Evie’s voice comes soft, cautious. “He saw it?”
I nod.
Evie is silent for all of three seconds before she shoots to her feet, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. “Unbelievable. That arrogant, suit-wearing slab of emotional repression actually read it and didn’t answer? Again?”
I nod again, slower this time.
She starts pacing. “You’re pregnant. With his child. And he just leaves you on read? I’m gonna key his car. No—scratch that—I’m gonna key every car he owns. I’m gonna key his yacht.”
“Evie…”
“No. No, Gen. This is war. He can’t just ghost you after…” She gestures wildly toward the bathroom. “That. After everything. After tying you up and whispering all that possessive nonsense into your ear like a man ready to set fire to the world just to keep you.”
I press my palms into my temples, head bowed. My skin feels thin. Too loud. That doesn't make sense. I don't think I care.
She spins back toward me. “Do you want me to leak it to the press? I will. I will give the gossip blogs an anonymous tip so fast?—”
“Evie, please.” My voice barely comes out.
She stops short. Her expression softens the moment she sees my face. “Gen…”
“I can’t. Not right now.”
Because all I can think about is the way he looked at me that last morning. The way he touched me like I meant something. The way he walked away like I didn’t.
I curl in on myself, pulling the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders. The silence stretches as Evie lowers herself gently onto the couch beside me. She doesn't speak again. Just stays there, quiet, close.
And I retreat into the only thing I have left—myself.
Because I have no idea what comes next.
* * *
I’ve never been more aware of my body.
Not in the self-conscious, I-hope-my-blazer-doesn’t-wrinkle kind of way. Not even in the post-Sebastian, legs-shaking, skin-still-humming-from-touch kind of way.
This is different.
This is the awareness that something inside me has shifted. That there is a line between before and after, and I’ve crossed it without a map or a guide or any idea what I’m supposed to do next.
And now I’m walking into a meeting with one of the most powerful men I’ve ever worked with, trying to act like my life isn’t unraveling at the seams.
