Page 50 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

The words hit like a fist to the sternum. Not because I didn’t see it coming. I did. Somewhere between the pale skin and the too-loose clothes and the way her hand kept drifting to her stomach, I knew. Or maybe I hoped I was wrong.

I just didn’t expect how much it would gut me to hear her say it.

My grip on my water glass tightens but I don’t let it show in my face. She doesn't need to feel like she's being judged.

“You’re sure?” I ask carefully.

She nods, still not looking at me. “Multiple tests. Evie made me take them. I didn’t believe it at first, but—” Her voice cracks. “It’s real.”

I don’t know who Evie is, but it must be someone she trusts. I'm glad she had someone with her. From her behavior it's clear the father isn't exactly in the picture.

I want to ask who. I want to demand to know. But I already know.

There’s only one answer that makes sense.

Sebastian.

Of course it’s him. Of course.

His behavior as of late has been uncharacteristically avoidant. He recommended this girl immediately but refuses to talk about her. I can barely get him in person anymore. He always has some ready excuse as to why he can’t come.

I breathe slowly. Carefully. Fighting the urge to bolt, or punch something, or pull my phone out and text him a string of words I’ll regret.

Instead, I meet her eyes. “What do you need?”

That startles her. “What?”

“Right now. What do you need? To yell? To cry? To throw something? Or do you want me to just sit here and shut up and hold your hand through the part where you fall apart?”

She stares at me like she’s never had someone ask that before.

And honestly? She probably hasn’t. Which is a fucking crime.

“I don’t know what I need,” she whispers. “Everything just feels…cracked. Like I took a step and the ground gave out and I’m still falling.”

I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.

“Then I’ll catch you.”

Her eyes shine. Her bottom lip wobbles. And this time, when she cries, she doesn’t apologize for it. She just lets it happen—quiet and messy and real.

I squeeze her hand tighter.

And I silently promise that whatever this is, wherever it goes, she won’t go through it alone.

She wipes at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, laughing softly through the tears. “God, this is so humiliating.”

“No, it’s not,” I say. “It’s brave.”

She gives me a look like she wants to believe that. Like she almost does. But the corners of her mouth twitch with doubt.

I don’t push. I just stay right where I am, doing what I do best: showing up and pretending it’s easy, even when my chest is tight with something I don’t know how to name yet.

I know what this looks like. It’s a pattern I’ve fallen into over and over. The girl with the sad eyes and a chaotic past. The one who lets me in just far enough to catch feelings before realizing she never wanted more than the lifestyle, the headline, the high-end perks. I always fall fast. Always hit the ground alone.

But Genevieve?

I don’t think she wants anything from me.