Page 28 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Sebastian was just one of those big steps. I want to regret it. But part of me is happy I followed what I wanted for once. Even if it ended in total heartbreak.

Evie barges in just before noon on day three, carrying iced coffee, pastries, and encouragement.

She takes one look at me—oversized hoodie, hair in a limp bun, mismatched socks—and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a gasp.

“Oh no. Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.”

I blink at her from my bed, where I’ve become one with the pillows. “Doing what?”

“This. The sad Victorian heroine routine. You’ve been floating around this apartment like a haunted soul, and I swear to God, if I find one more untouched latte cup on a windowsill, I’m calling a therapist.”

“I haven’t been that dramatic.”

“You sighed at the sink for seven full seconds yesterday, Gen. I counted. You were staring into a coffee mug like it held the answers to the universe.”

I sink lower into the blankets. “I’m processing.”

“You’re spiraling.”

She hands me the coffee and drops the pastry bag onto my lap as an offering to the emotionally unwell. I contemplate just lying there, but I know she’ll come in and drag me out by the ankle if I don’t emerge from my cavern of regrets.

“I’m just saying,” she calls from the kitchen, “a man with that much power and that much bone structure shouldn’t be allowed to leave a breakup note. It should be criminal. Or at least publicly shamed on social media.”

“It wasn’t a breakup,” I mumble from where I've curled up on the couch. “We weren’t together.”

“Oh, my bad. You just gave him your virginity, moaned his name against every available surface, let him tie you up, and had a week-long eye-sex marathon. Totally casual.”

I groan and press the heel of my palm to my forehead. “Please stop talking.”

“Nope. Not until you give me the green light to hate bomb him. I’ve got at least four burner accounts ready.”

“You’re aiming for a restraining order.”

“I’m aiming for revenge. At least let me hex him.” Evie reappears in the living room and flops onto the couch beside me. “I’m serious. I googled it. You just need hair and a bay leaf.”

“I’m not giving you his hair.”

“So youhavesome?”

I lift my head from the pillow long enough to shoot her a look. She raises both eyebrows, utterly unbothered.

“Fine,” she says, settling onto the couch beside me. “Then I’ll just use words. Words that cut. You know what his problem is? He’s emotionally constipated. Bet he hasn’t had a real feeling since 2012. Bet he treats therapy like a hostile business takeover.”

“Evie.”

“I’m just saying. Men that repressed have bigger commitment issues.”

“You haven’t even met him.”

She leans in, expression sharp. “I don’t need to meet him to know he’s the kind of man who thinks intimacy is giving you a second orgasm.”

My face goes hot. “That is not what happened.”

“Please...”

I groan and pull the throw blanket over my head.

She tugs it back down. “Hey. Don’t do that. Don’t disappear into self-blame mode. You didn’t do anything wrong.”