Page 99 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
“Not at all, sir. I’m saying there is a case to be made about her manipulation of you. And them.”
"She’s not like that."
A lesser man would flinch at the finality in my tone. Dom doesn’t.
"Sir, you’re emotional," he says. Not an accusation. A fact.
My mouth hardens into a grim line. Emotional? No. Emotional is messy. Unpredictable. I am furious. I am focused. I am dismantling every piece of this situation in my mind, building it back from the ruins she left behind. Emotion has nothing to do with it.
Genevieve didn’t plan this. She didn’t engineer her way into my life, into my bed. She didn’t manipulate Max or Silas into stepping into the space I abandoned. She survived me. That’s the difference. She adapted to the void I left behind.
And now, she’s carrying a piece of me I didn’t deserve to give her.
That’s not convenience.
That’s consequence.
"Stay focused on Langley," I say, pushing off the desk and adjusting the cuffs of my sleeves with slow, deliberate movements. "Leave Genevieve out of it."
Dom gives a short nod. No argument. No further protest. He knows better.
He steps back toward the door, pausing only once.
"If there’s anything I can do, sir, say the word."
I don’t respond.
There’s nothing he can do other than get me the information I’ve requested about Heather.
The damage is already done.
All that’s left is deciding whether I’m willing to burn down whatever’s left of myself to fix it.
And somehow, I already know the answer.
Chapter29
Max
The spreadsheet on my monitor blurs as I rub a hand across the back of my neck, forcing myself to refocus. End-of-quarter reports demand precision, not distraction, but my mind isn’t cooperating. It keeps dragging back to Genevieve.
I wanted to throttle Sebastian, dismantle him from top to bottom. And that fucking event planner…watching Gen shut down like that was painful. I hate that I can’t fix this for her. I hate that she’s in this situation at all. I thought Sebastian was a better man than this.
I’m halfway through recalibrating a profit margin formula when the sound of my office door swinging open without a knock jerks me out of the numbers.
"Mr. Thorne, I'm so sorry—" my assistant stammers from the hallway.
I don’t need her apology. I already know who it is.
Only one person has ever disregarded protocol in my office without hesitation.
"Naomi," I say, leaning back in my chair, steeling myself.
She steps inside, heels clicking against the floor. Her blonde hair is swept back into a sleek chignon, and her tailored navy dress is as sharp as the glare she levels at me. Naomi King is a force of nature—always has been—and if she’s here uninvited, it means she’s got something important to discuss.
From the look in her eyes, I’m guessing that something is me.
The door clicks shut behind her, cutting off my assistant’s nervous apologies.
