Page 30 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
I sit in the car for a full five minutes before I even reach for the keys.
The house is exactly the same—white brick, black shutters, hedges trimmed with military precision. The lawn is freshly mowed, and I’m ninety percent sure the hydrangeas are arranged by bloom color. Even the damn birds sound well-behaved.
There’s no reason to be nervous. I’ve done this a hundred times. Smile, sit up straight, answer politely, defer when necessary. Let my father steer the conversation. Let my mother offer unsolicited skincare advice between thinly veiled criticisms of my career path. It’s routine.
But today it feels heavier. My skin feels tight. My dress—perfectly respectable, non-wrinkled, modestly hemmed—feels wrong. Too stiff. Too far from who I was two weeks ago. From who Iwantedto be.
I glance at myself in the mirror and smooth my hair. Apply a little gloss. Not because I want to impress them. Because I don’t want to give them ammunition.
Then I get out and walk toward the front door like I’m heading into a job interview I already know I won’t get.
Simone opens the door before I even knock. She ushers me inside without fanfare and I’m led straight to the brunch room.
Yes,brunch room. Because in this house, even casual meals require a designated wing and full table setting.
My mother is already seated, posture immaculate, a delicate porcelain cup in one hand and the saucer in the other. She’s dressed for brunch the way most people dress for a corporate gala—cream blouse, pearl earrings, lipstick applied with surgical precision.
She doesn't look up.
“You’re late.”
“It’s 11:02.”
She sniffs, already turning toward the staff. “Punctuality is a virtue, darling. Coffee?”
“Please.”
Simone reappears with a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of crystal water glasses. My mother gestures impatiently for her to pour.
Across the table, my father glances up from his paper. His smile is brief, practiced.
“Genevieve.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He folds the paper and sets it aside, but doesn’t rise. Doesn’t offer a hug or even a handshake. Just studies me with the vague interest of someone skimming a quarterly report. My mother finally sets her tea down and motions to the empty seat across from her.
“Sit. We’ve already started.”
I sit.
The table is set for six, though only three places are in use. It’s an aesthetic choice, not optimism. My parents like the illusion of full rooms, of possibilities.
Simone reappears with a fresh platter of food I’m certain neither of my parents had a hand in preparing—roasted asparagus, a frittata, a tower of artisanal pastries too symmetrical to be accidental.
No one comments on the fact that I don’t reach for anything right away. Hunger left me somewhere over the Atlantic and hasn’t yet returned.
My mother studies me. “You look pale.”
“I flew in a few days ago. It was a long event.”
“Well, travel is exhausting when you don’t do it properly. You should look into one of those wellness IVs. Marina swears by them.”
I nod like I care.
My father clears his throat, folding his napkin with unnecessary precision. “I heard the Wolfe launch went well.”
“It did.”
