Page 62 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

Silas exhales. “You know what I’ve learned after years of pretending I didn’t want more? Sometimes, the safest way to love someone isn’t to control it. It’s to share it. If you want her—and I know you do—then maybe we stop pretending we’re on opposite sides of this.”

My throat feels tight. “You’re actually serious about this.”

“Completely.”

I turn that over in my mind. Let it twist. Let it settle.

“You want to share her. She’s not a toy, Silas. This isn’t?—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts in, low and sharp, more command than interruption. He softens it immediately when Genevieve stirs, one hand twitching beneath the throw blanket. “This is not about disrespect.”

I grind my jaw, but I don’t speak. Not yet.

He rises from the couch, moves toward the kitchen with that slow, deliberate gait he perfected on the field—part grace, part force. He pours a glass of water and sets it on the counter like he needs the motion to ground himself. Then he turns back to me.

“I’m not talking about using her. Or turning this into some fantasy fulfillment bullshit.” His gaze holds mine steadily. Serious. “I care about her. You do too. And maybe you don’t want to admit that yet, but I see it every time you look at her. So why does it have to be one or the other?”

I shake my head. “Because that’s not how this works.”

“Maybe not for you.” He shrugs. “But I’ve spent my whole damn life choosing women who only ever wanted a piece of me. The name. The lifestyle. The illusion. This is the first time it’s felt real, Max. She’s the first one who sees me.”

“She doesn’t even know you,” I snap with more force than I intend.

“She knows enough.” He doesn’t flinch. “And we’ve both watched her try to carry more than anyone should. Alone.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Charged.

Genevieve shifts again, her legs curling tighter beneath her. One hand clutches the hem of Silas’s sweatshirt.

I glance at her. She looks small like this. Soft. But not fragile.

“She deserves something steady,” I say quietly.

“Then be steady.”

I glance at him. “You really think this could work?”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “No. But I’ve stopped letting that be the reason I don’t try.” His voice drops as he looks toward her again. “If she chooses one of us? Fine. If she walks away? Also fine. But if she wants something different—something none of us saw coming—I’d rather be open to that.”

I don't respond.

Not because I agree.

But because a part of me already knows.

I'm not walking away from her either.

“You want to share her.”

“I want to share her.”

Chapter18

Gen

Iwake to the sound of low voices.

It takes a few seconds to orient myself. The voices are male, which confuses me. Until I remember where I am. I’m still wrapped in Silas’s sweatshirt, but now there’s a warm blanket resting over my legs. The lights are dimmed, the air still scented faintly with the tea Silas made me. There’s music playing—low, jazzy, familiar. It must be late.