Page 71 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

And for once, I don’t pretend I am.

Silas stays at my back, arms still a protective cage around me. Max stands in front of me, hands still holding my face like he’s anchoring me in place. There’s nothing sexual in it. Nothing performative. It’s just comfort. Shelter. Two sets of steady hands when mine feel useless.

I let myself fall forward into Max’s chest, forehead resting against his collarbone. His arms come around me. Silas doesn’t budge. I’m held between them, cushioned by warmth and the quiet hum of their presence. It’s the safest I’ve felt in weeks.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll fall apart again. Maybe tomorrow everything will be messy and complicated and impossible.

But right now, I just breathe.

And they hold me through it.

Chapter21

Sebastian

The ballroom is a study in forced opulence—polished marble, gilded sconces, the kind of curated excess that screams old money trying too hard. It’s not how I would have designed this event. It’s certainly not how Genevieve would have designed it.

The thought irritates me.

I’ve spent the better part of the past month methodically erasing her from my mind. I tighten my jaw, cutting the thought off before it gains traction. She doesn’t belong here. Not in this room. Not in my head.

I walked away from her for a reason. And that reason has not changed.

So, no. I don’t miss her. I don’t still dream of her and the way she felt beneath me. I don’t remember the breathless catch of her voice when I touched her, or the way her body trembled against mine, soft and trusting in a way that had no business gutting me the way it did. I don’t lie awake some nights, staring at the ceiling, replaying every broken sound she made when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

I buried all of it. I buried her.

Because weakness has no place in my life. Not in my business. Not in my bed. And certainly not in my mind.

She’s too young. Too innocent. Too naïve to survive a man like me. And I told myself it was better to let her hate me now than break her later.

It was the right decision.

It still is.

Even if it doesn’t feel like it tonight, with her ghost clinging to the edges of this room, dragging my focus back to places it has no business going. Even if every instinct I trust—the same instincts that built an empire and kept me alive through a thousand battles—are telling me that something is very, very wrong.

I don't miss her.

But God help me, some nights, I still want her.

I move through the crowd with calculated disinterest, ignoring the clinking of champagne glasses and the brittle laughter that thickens the air. The scent of too many perfumes clashes—floral, musky, cloying—turning the atmosphere dense enough to suffocate. I don’t want to fucking be here. But here I am.

You think I’d be used to this pretentious bullshit, but it still grates me every time I’m forced to rub elbows with the old money elite. Every conversation drips with manufactured politeness, every handshake a negotiation barely concealed behind diamond cufflinks and whispered barbs.

Max and Silas are here somewhere. I spotted their names on the guest list, but the sea of tailored suits and artfully bored expressions makes them harder to pin down than they should be. At this point, I’m desperate to find them. At least they’ll keep me entertained.

I scan the room without appearing to, taking stock of potential liabilities. A senator’s wife draped over the arm of a man who isn’t her husband. A venture capitalist slipping something into a waiter’s hand that looks suspiciously thicker than a gratuity. Flirtations, backroom deals, silent battles waging, it’s all par for the course.

None of it surprises me. This is the nature of these events: a circus masked as a gala, a chessboard disguised in silk and scandal.

My gaze keeps moving, assessing, cataloging, filing away details I might need later. And it’s during one of those routine sweeps that I catch the first ripple.

It starts as a whisper. Small. Insignificant. Easy to ignore.

"Silas Whitmore...and Max Thorne...sharing her."

The words are spoken with a kind of glee that sticks under the skin.