Page 101 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Better to control the narrative before someone else writes it.

"Fine," I say, standing and reaching for my phone. "But after tonight, you stay out of it."

Naomi rises as well, smoothing her skirt with a satisfied little smile. "If she’s worthy of you, Max, I’ll be the first to admit it."

The lie is so smooth it almost sounds sincere.

Almost.

I wait until the door clicks shut behind her before allowing myself a reaction. My shoulders sag slightly under the weight of what I’ve just agreed to.

This is a test.

And Naomi never rigs a test in anyone’s favor but her own.

I text a message to Gen and Silas, my fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before I type:

Change of plans.

Dinner with my sister and her family. 8 p.m.

I’m sorry. I’ll make it as painless as possible.

I promise.

Gen texts back almost immediately.

Of course. We’ll be there.

Five words. No hesitation. No questions.

She wants to make a good impression. She wants to belong here, in this world—my world. Unfortunately, she has no idea what Naomi is capable of when she’s on the war path.

I drag a hand through my hair, staring at the message for a long moment before pocketing the phone. I tell myself she’s tougher than she looks. That she’ll be fine. That Silas and I will keep her safe between us.

But Naomi scares me. And I’m man enough to admit it.

* * *

White stone, manicured hedges, towering windows, all blazing with golden light. Everything about my sister’s home is calculated to impress and intimidate.

Gen shifts beside me in the car, her hands smoothing over the fabric of her dress.

She looks beautiful—simple, understated elegance—but I can feel the nerves vibrating through her. I reach over, covering her hand with mine, squeezing once. She squeezes back.

Silas leans over, keeping his voice pitched low. "You’re perfect. Don’t let her get in your head."

Gen offers a tight smile, but I see the doubt in her eyes.

I want to tell her we can turn around. That none of this matters. That Naomi’s opinion means nothing compared to what Silas and I already know—that she belongs with us. But it’s too late. The driver is already pulling to a stop in front of the sweeping staircase.

There’s no turning back now.

Naomi swings open the door before we even reach it. She’s dressed for battle in black, the color of judgment. Her eyes sweep over us in a single, clinical glance, and I watch the calculation flicker through them. She doesn’t smile.

"Welcome," she says, stepping aside to let us in.

The house smells faintly of fresh flowers. The floors gleam under the light from the chandeliers. Staff members move discreetly in the background, ensuring everything is perfect.