Page 70 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

I brace both hands on the sink, head down. If I look at myself again, I’ll cry. If I cry, I won’t stop.

My stomach turns, nausea creeping in slow and steady waves. This was supposed to be a good night. A rare moment of something light, something close to joy. And now it feels tainted. Fragile. Like all the careful pieces I’ve put back together are about to collapse.

The door creaks behind me.

“Gen.”

Silas’s voice is soft, too close to kindness and not at all what I can handle right now.

“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice wobbles around the lie.

He steps closer. I can feel the warmth of him at my back before he speaks again. “You’re not.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

His reflection joins mine in the mirror. He presses in close, wrapping his arms around me from behind. His chest settles against my back, and I feel him exhale as he buries his face in the curve of my neck.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just holds me.

No pressure. No questions. Just steady arms and quiet breath, and the soft weight of his presence grounding me.

I close my eyes and lean into him, one hand still braced against the sink, the other curling over his forearm where it wraps across my stomach.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

The door opens again, and I don’t need to look to know who it is. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me like a spotlight, catching every detail. His mouth presses into that unreadable line, and I can already see the calculations in his eyes.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Genevieve.”

I shake my head. “Please.”

It’s a plea more than a protest.

They exchange a look. I see it in the mirror—barely a flicker—but it lands hard. Because they know. Or they think they do. And that might be worse.

I’d started to feel normal again. Max’s quiet presence. Silas’s laughter and warmth. The way they held me up without asking for pieces of me in return. I’d started to believe I could make this work. That I could carry this baby and this business and still have space for joy.

But now I’m shaking.

Max moves to my side, and Silas turns us, just enough to make space. I don’t have time to process what he’s doing before Max steps into the gap, close enough that I feel the brush of his chest against mine. His hands lift slowly, carefully, cradling my face with a tenderness that guts me.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just watches me, studying every flicker of emotion with that impossibly focused gaze of his.

Then, softly, “Did something happen?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not accusatory. It’s just…concern. Real and quiet and patient.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he adds, his thumbs brushing along the edge of my jaw. “You don’t have to talk. But you don’t have to do this alone, either.”

The tears come fast, then. Silent. Hot. Not the kind you can catch or hide. They slide down my cheeks and drip onto my dress, and I don’t bother wiping them away. There’s no point.

I’m not strong right now.