Page 46 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Max is already seated when I step into the conference room. His gaze lifts immediately, and I feel his sharp gaze as he assesses me on the spot. He doesn’t offer a smile, just a subtle nod of acknowledgment that makes my throat tighten.

But then I notice he’s not alone.

There’s another man in the room—lounging in the chair beside him, legs stretched out, one arm draped casually across the arm like he’s claimed the entire room by sheer force of presence. It takes me a half-second to register who it is, and another half to remember how to breathe.

Silas Whitmore.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

At least, no one told me he would be.

He looks up at me with a grin that could disarm most security systems. Broad shoulders. Relaxed posture. A button undone at his collar, sleeves rolled. The kind of effortless charm that makes you forget your own name if you’re not careful.

And suddenly, my already-knotted stomach twists tighter.

“Morning, G,” Silas says, his voice low and warm. “Looking sharp.”

“Thanks,” I reply, trying to sound normal. Trying not to fidget or vomit or cry. “Sorry I’m a few minutes behind. Traffic.”

“You’re fine,” Max says. His tone is clipped, businesslike. But his eyes don’t leave my face. “Have a seat.”

I do, carefully. My hands shake just enough to make clicking my pen feel like a small battle. I flip open my folder and launch into the first segment of the updated proposal, forcing my voice into something steady and practiced. I talk through the timeline. The vendor coordination. The design strategy.

They listen. Silas nods occasionally. Max asks a few pointed questions.

But something’s wrong. I know it. I feel it.

Not with them—with me.

I miss a cue on one of the design boards. Stumble over a vendor name I’ve known for five years. And when I catch myself gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn my knuckles white, I realize they’ve both gone quiet.

Max narrows his eyes. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just—long week.”

Silas shifts in his chair, watching me closely now. “You sure? You’re pale.”

“I’m okay.” My smile feels tight. “Just a little off today. Didn’t sleep much.”

Neither of them looks convinced.

“Let’s take a break,” Max says, already pushing back from the table.

“I don’t need a?—”

“Ten minutes,” he says firmly, and walks out.

Silas doesn’t move.

He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice gentler now. “Genevieve.”

The way he says my name nearly undoes me.

“I’m fine,” I whisper. “Really.”

“You’re not.”

I glance down at my lap. My hands. The flat expanse of my stomach, where everything has changed and no one can see it yet.