Page 145 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

“She’s going to curse you later if you name her something she’ll have to spell out for the rest of her life,” Max is saying, his voice dry.

I huff a small laugh before I can stop myself, the sound catching their attention instantly. Shoot—I was hoping to continue eavesdropping on their conversation.

Three heads swivel toward me.

I ease into the room with all the grace I can manage these days, which is to say, very little. I just had the most amazing mid-day nap and I’m still a little groggy.

Max crosses the distance in two strides, looping an arm around my waist before I can get too far.

Sebastian moves in on my other side, tilting my chin up with two fingers to press a kiss to my forehead. “We’re brainstorming baby girl names.”

Silas leans his elbows on the counter, flashing me a wicked smile. “Democracy at work. But it’s not going well.”

I arch an eyebrow. “And who’s leading the pack?”

“All of us,” Max says solemnly.

“At each other’s throats,” Silas amends, grabbing a strawberry from the bowl on the counter and popping it into his mouth. “It’s brutal.”

I let them pull me deeper into the room, into the circle of their warmth.

“Alright. So which names are the front runners at this point?”

Silas ticks them off. “Sebastian wants Octavia or Calista. Max prefers Selene or Vivienne, spelled with two v’s, two e’s and two n’s. The poor kid is going to be ten before she can spell her own name with that one though.”

“He’s got a good point there,” I say, glancing at Max who is pretending to be very offended.

“And I want Marigold or Jasmine,” Silas continues. “For some reason, I feel like she needs to be named after a flower.”

That cracks me up and my laughter causes our daughter to kick, a sharp little jab that makes me gasp.

Immediately, all three of them freeze.

Sebastian drops to one knee without hesitation, pressing his palm carefully against the spot where she kicked again.

“She’s feisty,” Max says, wonder threading through his voice.

Sebastian says nothing. He just stays there, kneeling in front of me, his hand splayed wide, his head bowed.

The room spins for a second—not from dizziness, but from the sheer weight of the moment. I brace myself against them, feeling their hands, their bodies, their steady presence anchoring me.

I don't have to ask if they love her. I see it in the way they touch me. I hear it in the way they speak to her, murmuring low promises against my skin when they think I’m not listening.

This isn’t the life I was raised to want.

It isn’t the pristine country clubs and strategic relationships and polished, empty parties.

It’s messy and loud and chaotic.

And mine.

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