Page 54 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Then what?
I’d apologize?
Explain?
Tell her the truth—that I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I left? That she’s not just a mistake I regret, but something I miss?
No.
I don’t get to want her now. I close the thread. Hold my breath.
Then I delete the contact.
It doesn’t erase the ache in my chest.
It doesn’t stop the dream from replaying the second I close my eyes again.
But it draws the line.
And that’s what I’ve always been good at—lines. Boundaries. Endings.
I just never expected this one to feel like failure.
Chapter16
Gen
There’s no grand declaration or a dramatic moment where I throw my phone across the room and scream into the void. It’s quieter than that. Smaller.
I just stop trying.
I stop reaching out. Stop checking my phone. Stop hoping the unread notification will magically turn into something that means he still cares.
Because he doesn’t.
And I need to stop pretending he ever did.
I delete the thread the night before my first doctor’s appointment. Not because I want to, but because I can’t walk into that office tomorrow still holding onto something that was never mine.
Evie offers to come with me, of course. She offers three times, actually—once with bribery, once with threats, and once while waving a very real “emotional support croissant” in front of my face. But I say no. I need to do this alone. Just once. Just to prove I can.
Because I will be doing a lot of this alone. My baby has a biological father, but they won’t have a daddy.
The clinic is bright and modern, located on a floor that is numbered five thousand in a stupid-tall building that was obnoxiously difficult to get to. The elevators took forever, the waiting room was full of women who looked much more prepared than me, and I’m ninety percent sure the receptionist silently judged my top.
I’m not late, but I still spend the entire check-in process with sweat pooling under my arms and my stomach tying itself into tighter knots with every passing second.
The nurse who takes my vitals is kind, in that detached, professional way that tells me she’s seen hundreds of girls exactly like me—young, unprepared, trying to fake a composure they haven’t earned yet.
I keep smoothing the hem of my blouse. It doesn’t help.
I don’t want to be here.
When the doctor comes in, she introduces herself as Dr. Kim and smiles softly as she delivers the news I already know. I am indeed pregnant. I answer questions I didn’t prepare for. Try to nod at the right times. Try to sound like I’m capable. Responsible. Stable.
Then she dims the lights, rolls in the ultrasound machine, and before I can brace myself, there it is—small, grainy, impossibly real. A flicker of a heartbeat. She says everything looks healthy. Then she asks if I’ve decided what kind of support I’ll need.
The question breaks something loose inside me.
