Page 58 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Chapter17
Max
Genevieve St. Claire is unraveling.
Not in a loud, dramatic way. There’s no tears, no outbursts. She still stands straight, still keeps her voice even, still makes those neat little notes in the margins of her event planner like everything’s fine. But I know what I’m looking at.
She holds onto control almost as well as I do. But her facade is cracking.
It’s the kind of fraying that happens when someone pushes themselves past their limit and keeps going anyway. She keeps touching her stomach. I don't think she's even aware she’s doing it. And her eyes…her eyes are losing their light.
I watch from a few feet away, hands in my pockets, trying not to hover. Hovering makes people uncomfortable. I'm already unsettling enough as it is. I’ve been told I come off cold. Detached. And maybe that’s fair—I don’t do well with...people. Not in the day-to-day sense. Not in the sense where you notice a woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes anymore.
Except I do notice. Because it’s Genevieve.
She’s hunched over a folding table, trying to measure the spacing between mockups for the lounge seating. It’s the third time she’s dropped the tape. I watch as she retrieves it with a muttered breath, the motion just a little slower than it should be. There’s color missing from her face. Her shoulders are up around her ears. Her blouse is wrinkled, her hair is pulled back too harshly.
She speaks before I can. “If you’re going to critique the placement, do it quickly. I know I’m off by at least an inch.”
Her voice has bite, but it’s worn down at the edges. I’ve heard her sharp before. This isn’t that.
“You’ve dropped your tape measure three times,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
She glances up at me, a flicker of irritation in her expression. “You’re not my doctor, Mr. Thorne.”
“And you’re not convincing anyone.”
Her mouth opens, probably to argue, but then—of course—Silas arrives.
Again.
It’s the third time he’s just “happened to be in the area” when I have a scheduled walkthrough with Genevieve. I don’t believe in coincidences. I also don’t believe Silas has suddenly developed an intense interest in floral schematics.
No, he’s developed an interest in the stunningly-beautiful-and-far-too-young event planner.
“Hey, G,” he calls out as he enters the space, unbothered as ever, dressed in jeans and a button-down. “Brought coffee. And actual food, in case Max has been forcing you to survive on water and spreadsheets.”
Genevieve smiles faintly. It’s the most genuine expression I’ve seen from her all day.
Silas crosses the room and offers her a pastry bag and a hot drink like a goddamn knight. Her shoulders relax. Her posture shifts.
And I feel…something.
Not jealousy. Not exactly. Just a tightness low in my chest. Because Silas falls in love every other month. Usually with women who see him as a stepping stone or a headline or a lifestyle. It never lasts.
But with Genevieve, it’s different. He’s softer with her. More careful. Like he knows this could be the one that actually breaks him.
Which would be bad enough.
Except I feel it too.
I shouldn’t. She’s young. Smart. Ambitious. She deserves someone who knows how to give. Someone who doesn’t strategize every feeling or look at affection like a risk management exercise. But even knowing all of that, I can’t stop thinking about her. Watching her. Worrying, which is not something I’m in the habit of doing.
She thanks Silas with a voice that’s a little too thin. She takes the cup, but doesn’t drink it. Her hands still tremble.
