Page 73 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
It’s a sixth sense. Herd behavior.
And whatever they’re looking at—whatever’s drawing the murmur of voices and the gleam of hungry eyes—it isn’t just any scandal.
I quicken my pace, threading through the clots of conversation with a single-minded precision honed over years of boardroom wars and bloodless takedowns. Faces blur past me, none worth remembering. The chandeliers overhead catch the light in sharp angles, scattering it across the marble floors in fractured bursts. Every footstep echoes a little too loudly in my ears.
Somewhere across the room, someone whistles low under his breath.
"She’s going to ruin them."
Another voice, closer. Harsher.
"Or maybe they'll ruin her."
I don’t realize I’ve clenched my fists until I feel the ache in my knuckles, the skin pulled taut from the pressure. I force them open, flexing my fingers once, twice. A useless exercise. It doesn’t bleed the tension from my body. It doesn't slow the gathering storm.
Because even now, before I’ve seen her—before I’ve confirmed anything—I know.
The whispers grow thicker as I cut through the ballroom, a wave of crude speculation and predatory amusement. I follow it. Track the center of gravity pulling all these rotted bastards in the same direction.
And then I see them.
Silas. Max. And?—
Genevieve.MyGenevieve.
She’s standing between them, her body angled toward Max, but her face tilted up at Silas, caught in some moment I can't read from here. Radiant. Flushed. Too damn beautiful. Her hair is down, loose around her shoulders, the ends catching the low, golden light spilling from the chandeliers above.
Heather Langley materializes at my side, her voice syrupy as always. I barely register her existence until she touches my arm, her manicured nails skimming the sleeve of my jacket like she owns the right to reach for me.
"Sebastian," she purrs. "I was hoping I'd run into you."
She leans in, angling her body to brush against mine in a way that’s supposed to read as effortless seduction, but feels desperate. I don’t move. Don’t acknowledge her presence beyond a glance cold enough to freeze her smile in place. My eyes never leave Genevieve.
Heather might as well be furniture.
She says something else—I don’t catch it. Some thinly veiled invitation, some clumsy attempt at reigniting a flame that never existed in the first place.
I’m about to tell her to fuck off when Genevieve feels my presence. Her mouth is parted in something that might have been laughter a second ago, but now—now it’s frozen halfway open, her eyes widening as she finally notices me.
The impact is immediate.
The color drains from her face so fast it’s dizzying. The flush that lit her skin a moment ago is gone, replaced by a stark, bloodless pallor that hits me harder than any whispered rumor.
She looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Rage slams into me so hard and fast it feels like a wrecking ball through the thin veneer of control I’ve spent my life perfecting. I force myself to hold steady, to lock my body into a stance that reads cool, unaffected, when everything inside me is snapping loose.
She’s here. With them.
Silas’s hand brushes her lower back. Max shifts closer, body angling to block part of the crowd from getting too close, a protective move so familiar I could have executed it myself. It’s intimate and familiar.
Genevieve. Standing between two of my closest friends.
Mine.
Or she was.
The thought curdles, toxic and corrosive.
