Page 103 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Gen finally picks up her fork, forcing a small, polite bite. Silas mirrors her a second later, probably more to keep up appearances than out of any real appetite.

Robert clears his throat again, more pointed this time. "Naomi," he says quietly, a warning.

She ignores him.

"So, tell me," Naomi says, spearing a piece of asparagus, "how does one manage the...logistics of a situation like yours?"

Genevieve blinks. "Logistics?"

"Yes. Two men. One woman. Doesn't it get...complicated?"

The implication hangs there. It’s vulgar, poisoning the air. Silas is right, she’s being petty, and I won’t keep my mouth shut much longer.

It takes everything I have not to lay into Naomi across the polished mahogany.

Gen clears her throat delicately, reclaiming the conversation. "What Silas and Max and I have is our business."

Naomi smiles like a shark. "Of course it is."

She dabs her mouth with her napkin, the motion slow and exaggerated.

"And what about the child?" she asks as if she’s inquiring about the weather. "Will it be raised by committee?"

Gen freezes. The blood drains from her face.

“Surely my brother had to know that I can read between the lines," Naomi continues, cutting into her filet with delicate precision.

Gen sets her fork down slowly, her fingers trembling. Silas’s entire frame has gone rigid beside her.

I push my chair back slightly, the movement a warning shot across the table.

Robert clears his throat again, louder this time. Naomi doesn’t acknowledge it. Her focus is locked on Gen.

"You're young…very young actually," Naomi says lightly, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. "Beautiful. Ambitious. It would be easy to...misconstrue your intentions."

Gen inhales slowly, her face smoothing into a mask of composure. "I’m not here for anyone’s money," she says. "I’m not here for status. I didn’t plan this. The baby isn’t even theirs. Sebastian?—"

She cuts herself off, but the damage is already done.

The mention of his name slices the air between us. Naomi’s expression shifts subtly, the faint lines around her mouth hardening. She leans back in her chair with an unreadable look, her hands folding neatly in her lap, her entire body radiating silent judgment.

Gen’s shoulders stiffen. Her hand tightens around her napkin before she places it on the table in front of her.

“Please excuse me,” she says, voice clipped but polite.

She stands, smoothing her dress with shaking hands, her composure only fracturing if you know her well enough to see it. I’m already pushing my chair back, Silas a half second behind me, both of us moving instinctively to follow her.

She doesn’t even look at us. Just lifts one hand and gives a small, decisive shake of her head.

Stay.

Her message is clear, but she looks like she’s about to lose it. I can see that in the slight tremble of her fingers, the set of her jaw. She walks out of the dining room without another word, her heels whispering against the marble as she disappears down the hall.

The second she’s out of sight, the tension at the table snaps taut enough to choke on.

Naomi watches her leave with a small, satisfied tilt to her mouth. She dabs her lips with her napkin—dainty, controlled—then tosses it onto the table with a soft, dismissive flick of her wrist.

"I should speak with the kitchen staff," she says, her voice casual, as if she hadn’t just gutted a woman at her own dinner table.