Page 59 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

She doesn’t touch the pastries. Or the sandwich I insisted she take. Her eyes are glassy, her skin pale under the overhead lights. I know Silas can see it too. He’s somewhere across the venue now, joking with the lighting crew, but his eyes continually flick over to her.

She’s frowning in frustration over a miscalculation.

I step forward. “That’s enough.”

She startles, straightening quickly. “What?”

“You’re done for the day.”

“I’m not.” Her voice is light, overly bright. “We haven’t even finished plotting the center aisle, and the floral mock-ups still need?—”

“You need to rest,” I say, calm but firm. No edge, just fact.

She blinks. “I don’t have time to rest.”

“You do if I say you do.”

Her lips press into a tight line, but something flickers behind her eyes. It’s not indignation. Not pride. It’s fear. Worry. Exhaustion, yes, but something more.

She looks away too quickly. Bends to re-do the calculations again, like ignoring me will somehow make the conversation disappear.

I step closer. “You’re shaking.”

She tenses. Doesn’t deny it.

“This isn’t a suggestion, Genevieve. If you keep running yourself into the ground, the event won’t matter. I need you functional. I need you sharp.”

Her chin lifts at that. “I am sharp.”

“You were. Two weeks ago.” I lower my voice. “Now you’re on fumes, and everyone can see it.”

“Everyone?”

“Silas. Me. Half the vendors.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. Her grip on the tape measure tightens until her knuckles go white. She doesn’t look at me.

Her eyes finally move to me, a flicker of something unreadable in them. Then she glances at Silas, who’s watching us both now, suddenly less amused.

“You’re not a machine,” I add. “And this event will fall apart if you collapse.”

She stiffens. “I’m not going to collapse.”

“Not yet.”

For a second, I think she’s going to argue. But instead, she deflates just enough to prove I’m right.

I reach out, gently pry the tape from her hand, and set it on the table. Her fingers twitch in the absence. She looks at me again—finally—and there’s something so raw in her expression it almost knocks the breath out of me.

She’s cracking. And I don’t think she has anyone she trusts to catch her when she does.

“Go home,” I say, quieter now. “Rest. Take the night. If I see you back here before ten tomorrow, I’ll have security escort you out.”

That earns a ghost of a smile. It doesn’t last.

She nods.

Silas steps in. “I can drive her back. Make sure she actually rests.”