Page 69 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

And I know, with a certainty that lands hard in my chest, that this is going to be something incredible.

Chapter20

Gen

The gown I’m wearing is emerald satin. The color perfectly suits my complexion and my blonde hair. It’s cut just sharp enough through the bodice to feel powerful and tailored, but not so much that it looks like I’m trying too hard. It’s also cut in a way that hides the tiny little bump I’m starting to show.

No one would guess I was pregnant, but I’m still not ready for those questions from anyone outside of my inner circle.

Silas insisted on sending it over, along with a box containing a pair of weirdly comfortable heels that don’t punish me for standing upright. I argued. Briefly. He said it was a donation to his favorite cause: me.

The man knows how to charm.

The event is black tie, hosted at some elite Upper East Side gallery where the art on the walls costs more than most people’s homes and the champagne tastes the way money smells. Crisp. Effortless. Cold.

I’m not new to these kinds of events, but it’s different tonight. Not just because I’m technically a guest and not working. Not just because both Max and Silas are flanking me and throwing off deliciously territorial vibes.

But because I’m trying so damn hard not to fall apart.

I’m tired. Not the kind of tired that can be fixed with sleep or sugar or caffeine. The kind of tired that runs bone deep. Growing a human is fucking hard.

But I smile when Silas leans in with a whisper or when Max brushes a kiss across my temple. I reach for another glass of mineral water and pretend the crowd isn’t too loud, too close. I pretend I can’t see the eyes on us judging. I can’t tell if they’re more judgy about the age gap or the fact that I am very clearly with two men tonight.

I let Max adjust the line of my shawl when it slips from my shoulder, his fingers brushing the curve of my neck with a possessiveness that makes my pulse jump. Silas hides a feral little smile with a sip of his whiskey.

They’re attentive. In sync. Still navigating this strange, impossible thing we’re building together, but committed to it all the same. For the first time in weeks, I feel something close to steady. Not fixed. Not whole. But less breakable.

Until I feel him.

It isn’t touch. Not sound. Just a shift in energy that I can’t explain. I turn before I mean to, before I’m ready, and there he is. For the first time in almost two months, I am staring at the man who built me up and broke me down.

Sebastian Wolfe.

He’s across the room, standing near the bar, shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket, one hand loose in his pocket. He isn’t looking at the woman beside him—Heather Langley, who’s wearing a red dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. No, he’s looking directly at me.

Our eyes lock, and I feel like I might be having a panic attack. A wounded little sound escapes my lips, and both Silas and Max react.

It’s not even the surprise of seeing him in the flesh for the first time since he dropped me with a typed note. It’s the way his expression shifts.

He looks from me to Silas, then to Max.

His eyes narrow. For a breath, something raw surfaces—rage, pure unadulterated rage. It’s enough to make my pulse skip. Then it’s gone, sealed behind that same polished indifference he wore when he walked away.

I can’t breathe.

The panic kicks up in my chest, frantic and directionless. I turn away too fast, nearly knocking into someone behind me. I don’t remember slipping from Silas’s side or brushing past Max, who’d only just returned from a conversation with a donor. My heels click too fast on the marble. My dress suddenly feels too tight across my ribs, making my breathing shallow and painful.

I don’t remember how I find the restroom, just that it’s cold and white and quiet, and that when the door closes behind me, I press both palms to the counter and stare at myself in the mirror like the reflection might offer answers. I barely recognize myself.

My makeup is flawless—Evie made sure of that. But it doesn’t hide how pale I am.

My chest is rising too fast. Panic is clawing at my edges, and I feel like I’m about to unravel.

He saw me. He sawus.

And he was withher.

Heather fucking Langley.