Page 79 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
The thought sinks deep, lodging in a place I don’t examine too often. Down to the part of me that knows exactly how easily I cut people out of my life. How ruthlessly I walk away when something threatens the control I built my world around.
"Who else knows?" I ask, my eyes still locked on the closed folder.
“She's been keeping a low profile. Working late. Minimal outside contact. No family involved."
No family. No support. No safety net.
She’s handling it on her own, because I left her no other option.
The fury tightens inside me, dense and unrelenting. It isn’t clean, isn’t precise, the way I usually process anger. This is messier. Heavier.
"No one else?"
"Only Thorne and Whitmore. No other flagged contacts."
A sharp pain fills my chest, and I rub at it absently. I trusted them. I still trust them, to a point. But the image of her standing between them shreds whatever calm I have left.
The idea of either of them stepping into the void I left behind gnaws at me.
And the idea of my child—the one she’s been carrying in silence—being raised by anyone but me? It turns the slow burn of anger into a blade honed sharp enough to cut through steel.
"Where is she?" I demand.
“Her office, I imagine. No indication she’s moved residences. No signs she’s reaching out to family."
Of course she hasn’t. Genevieve would rather bleed quietly in the dark than ask anyone for help. She’s too proud.
"Send me the address," I say.
Dom already has his phone out, fingers moving over the screen. A second later, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I rise from my chair, grabbing my jacket from the back of it without slowing down. My mind is already moving, calculating next steps, stripping the situation down to what matters.
Genevieve.
The child.Mychild.
The fact that no one else is going to take what belongs to me.
"You want backup?"
"No."
I move through the office without looking back, my mind already mapping the fastest route to her. She’s not going to hide from this. She’s not going to bury my bloodline in silence and shame because I made the mistake of thinking I could walk away from her.
This ends tonight.
* * *
The elevator dings on the third floor, the doors sliding open to a dimly lit hallway that smells faintly of fresh paint and sawdust. The building is new, barely occupied.
I cross the hall in long, controlled strides, my hand already curling into a fist before I reach her door. It’s slightly ajar, a thin slice of warm light bleeding into the corridor. She’s inside. Alone. Vulnerable.
And that makes me far angrier than it should.
The room is spartan—white walls, scattered papers, a half-empty coffee cup sitting abandoned on a corner desk—but I don’t see any of it.
All I see is her.
