Page 124 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

I spend the better part of the afternoon on the phone. Extra security, around the clock. Discreet, not the men in black with headsets kind that’ll just make her feel more trapped.

I have our lawyers draft statements. Libel notices. A few targeted threats to outlets that crossed a line. Nothing flashy, nothing that’ll draw more attention.

Genevieve finds me halfway through a call with the charity’s head of crisis management, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. She leans against the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, wearing one of my hoodies that hangs halfway to her knees. Her hair’s piled in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face, and she looks so damn beautiful.

"You’re plotting something," she says, eyebrow arched.

I hang up before the guy on the other end can say goodbye, tossing my phone onto the coffee table. "Always."

She narrows her eyes. "Plotting usually gets you in trouble."

I grin, unabashed. "Trouble keeps life interesting."

She huffs, that tiny half-smile tugging at her lips. But then she sobers, tilting her head. "Seriously, Silas. What are you doing?"

I stand, stretching lazily before crossing the room to her. I cup her jaw, brushing my thumb along the sharp line of her cheekbone.

"Making sure nobody fucks with you," I say, letting the words settle between us.

She blinks up at me, caught off guard.

"You’re ours, baby girl," I add, voice dropping lower, rougher. "And nobody—nobody—gets to make you feel unsafe."

She doesn’t argue or tell me I’m overreacting. She just leans into my hand, closing her eyes for a beat.

And in that moment, every fucked-up part of my life makes a little more sense. Because all of it led me here. To her.

Later, when the city outside dims into something softer, when the walls of the loft hum with a rare kind of peace, she curls into my side under the covers.

Genevieve tucks her face into my chest, her hand sliding up to rest over my heart, her fingers curling against my skin like she’s anchoring herself.

"Silas," she whispers, her breath warm against my ribs.

"Yeah, baby?"

She shifts, just enough to tilt her chin up, her eyes catching the low light. There’s a wariness there, but under it...trust.

"I love you," she says.

I press my mouth to her forehead, squeezing my eyes shut against the rush of emotions.

"I love you too, G," I murmur against her hair.

She smiles against my skin, and it feels different from all the smiles before—less guarded, more real. I shift slightly, sliding my hand down between us until I find the small swell of her belly under the oversized shirt she’s wearing. I rest my palm there, feeling for the faintest flutter, even though I know it’s too soon.

Still. I swear I feel something.

Or maybe that’s just what hope feels like for the first time.

Max and Sebastian get home late, arriving one after the other. Max pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of us tangled together on the bed, before shedding his jacket and toeing off his shoes.

He doesn’t say anything. Just crosses the room and slides into bed behind Genevieve, his hand finding her hip under the covers, thumb brushing over the curve of it.

Sebastian’s slower to follow. Always cautious, always calculating. He stands there a moment longer, watching us with something complicated in his eyes, before exhaling a slow breath and sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand finds Genevieve’s foot under the blanket, a simple touch, but one that says everything he can’t yet.

I glance at Max over Genevieve’s head. He meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us.

This is it.