Page 123 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Silas is somewhere in the kitchen, muttering to himself about something he burned. I hear the clatter of a pan and the quiet, creative swearing that follows. A tiny smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
My phone buzzes across the coffee table, vibrating against the wood with an insistence that sets my teeth on edge. I already know who it is before I look.
Mother.
For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. But that’s not who I am, even if I want it to be.
I answer.
“Genevieve,” she says, her voice tight, as if just saying my name is an effort. “I assume you’re aware of the...circus you’ve created.”
I close my eyes briefly, inhaling through my nose. "Yes."
"You need to fix this," she snaps. "Immediately."
My throat tightens, but I manage to keep my tone even. "Fix what, exactly?"
"This embarrassment. This disgrace." Her voice sharpens. "It’s one thing to entangle yourself with one of them—though even that would have been a stretch. But three? And now you’re pregnant?"
I stare at the far wall, willing myself not to react, not to let her see the wound she’s tearing open.
"You are a St. Claire," she hisses. "You were raised better than this."
A beat of silence stretches between us. I could remind her that her absence taught me far more about loneliness than it ever did about decorum. But what would be the point?
"You’re ruining your future. Our family’s name. Marrying one of them would have been salvageable. Marrying three?—"
"I’m not marrying anyone," I cut in, my voice low.
The silence on the other end is deafening.
"This isn’t about you," I say, quieter now. "It never was."
I hang up before she can respond.
My hands are shaking again, but this time, it’s not fear. It’s fury. And something else, too.
Freedom.
Chapter37
Silas
The thing about media storms is you either learn to ride the wave or you drown in it. Me? I’m pretty good at surfing.
I should be worried. Any rational person would be. The articles are vicious, the pictures invasive, and the headlines? Christ, they’re getting creative. Every day, there’s some new variation ofBillionaire Besties and Their Barely Legal Baby Mama.
Real Pulitzer-level journalism.
Max grinds his teeth. Sebastian stalks around his office issuing cease and desist orders like candy. But me? I don’t give a damn about public opinion. They don’t know her. They don’t get to have an opinion.
What I care about is the way Genevieve flinches when her phone pings. The way she ducks her head when we walk into a restaurant, even though Max has already bought out half the place for privacy. The way she bites her lip and tucks herself smaller, as if making herself less will make the noise go away.
It won't.
And seeing it guts me.
So, I do what I do best: I fix it.
