Page 84 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

"You don’t get to rewrite this," I continue, voice low but unwavering. "You don't get to act like I betrayed you when you were the one who decided I wasn’t worth staying for. Do you fucking get that?"

"I made a mistake," he says, each word rough and slow, like he’s forcing them out through gritted teeth.

"No," I correct him sharply. "You made a choice. Don’t insult me by pretending it was anything less than that."

He flinches at that—barely, but I catch it. I see every tiny crack he tries to hide.

"You didn’t call. You didn’t text. You sent someone else to make excuses for you," I say, the words pouring out faster now, gaining a momentum I can't stop. "You left a note with your lackey, and then you vanished. And when I tried to reach you—when I needed you—you made itvery clearyou weren’t interested."

The silence in the room grows heavier, stretching taut between us, thick enough to choke on.

"And you think you get to stand here now and judge me for finding comfort elsewhere? For finding a connection—the kind of connection I thought I’d shared with you?” My voice drops, every syllable slicing clean and deep. "You think you get to demand answers, demand loyalty, demand...anything?"

He stares at me, something vicious and desperate burning behind his eyes. "I won’t be cut out of his life," he says. "Or hers. Their life. That’s my baby,"

The certainty in his voice rattles something deep inside me, something fragile and defensive that wants to curl up and hide. But I won’t give him that. Not now. Not ever.

"I never said you would be," I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "But you don't get to bulldoze your way back in and act like none of this matters. You don't get to claim us—me or the baby—just because you finally pulled your head out of your ass."

Sebastian’s jaw works furiously, the muscles twitching as he fights whatever instinct tells him to push harder, argue louder, dominate the conversation the way he does in every boardroom and backroom deal he’s ever walked into.

But this isn’t a business transaction.

This is my life.

My body.

My baby.

And I’m not fucking negotiating with him.

Not anymore.

"You want to be involved?" I say, my voice steady, even though my heart is thundering painfully in my chest. "Fine. You can take the damn paternity test. You can show up for doctor's appointments. You can be a part of this. But you don’t get to take over. You don’t get to call the shots. Not after the way you left."

“Is there a question of paternity?” His voice is so tight, I’m surprised his vocal cords don’t snap.

"Not a one," I fire back. "But you're still taking the test. I don’t want there to be any question in your mind."

He flinches. Barely. But I see it.

I step closer, enough to make sure there’s no misunderstanding.

"You're not going to walk away from this a second time," I say, each word sharp and deliberate. "You're not going to spin whatever bullshit story you need to tell yourself to make it easier to sleep at night. You're not going to rewrite this."

I square my shoulders, lifting my chin.

"You want a place in this baby's life? You earn it. You fight for it. And you don’t get to tear me apart in the process."

He doesn't answer. He just stands there, breathing hard, looking at me like he doesn't know whether he wants to kiss me or strangle me.

Good.

Because I don’t know either.

For a long, awful moment, it feels like we might start the whole cycle over again—rage, regret, hurt, endless and pointless.

But then Max steps forward, his hand finding mine and squeezing just once, a silent reminder that I’m not alone in this. Silas mirrors him, settling at my other side.