Page 40 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Evie narrows her eyes. “You’re pale. You’re clammy. And I saw you put your cereal in the refrigerator this morning and the almond milk in the pantry.”

“That’s not proof of illness. That’s just...creative organizing.”

She doesn’t smile. “Gen.”

I hate how soft her voice gets when she says my name like that. Like she’s bracing for impact.

I set the tea down, bracing myself against the edge of the counter. “I need this, Evie. I need something to go right. I can’t afford to drop the ball. Not now.”

Her face twists. “This isn’t the ball. This is your health.”

“It’s not the flu,” I say, mostly because I want it to be true. “Probably just run down. The Wolfe event drained me. And then—” I break off. I don’t want to say his name.

Evie doesn’t press. Just walks over, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into her side.

I lean into her without argument.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she murmurs. “Not to him. Not to Silas. Not to anyone.”

But I do. That’s the part she doesn’t understand.

I’ve spent the last four years climbing uphill with nothing but determination and a mood board. No safety net. No family endorsement. No backup plan. And if this meeting falls apart—if I fall apart—then all of the momentum I’ve built will vanish before it has the chance to become something real.

I pull back. Straighten my shoulders. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get through the hour.”

Evie studies me for a second longer. Then sighs and grabs her keys. “Fine. I’m driving you.”

“I can drive.”

“You look like crap. You’re not driving.”

I let her win. Because I already feel dizzy, and I haven’t even left the apartment yet.

She pushes the tea back into my hands, muttering about cold compresses and strong-willed dumbasses under her breath.

I force a smile.

I can get through this.

I don’t have a choice.

* * *

Evie pulls up in front of the Whitmore Foundation’s downtown headquarters and throws the car into park with more force than necessary. She twists in her seat and eyes me like I might try to bolt.

She greatly overestimates my desire to move at the moment. Every subtle shift seems to make my stomach threaten to revolt.

“Do not pass out. Do not throw up on anyone. And text me the second this thing is over so I can come rescue you.”

“I’m not a child. Or a damsel in distress.”

“You’re pale and vibrating and trying to bluff your way through a meeting with a man whose jawline has literally broken hearts.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Call me,” she repeats, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at mine before I even open the door. “Swear it.”

I nod. “Swear it.”