Page 91 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

"We figure it out," she says finally, each word clipped. "Together. All four of us."

I want to believe her. God, I want to. But the distance between us feels insurmountable. Every second she sits there wrapped in their silent protection, I feel her slipping farther out of reach.

I lean back, forcing myself to keep my body relaxed even as my mind races.

"You’re living with them."

It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement. A fact I already know, but need to hear confirmed.

Genevieve hesitates, then nods once. “Not officially.”

The confirmation guts me, but I don't let it show. They both shift toward her again. I want to break something.

Preferably both of them.

"Are you—" I stop, jaw tightening, forcing the words out. "Are you happy?"

Genevieve finally looks at me then. Not fully—just a flicker of her eyes meeting mine across the distance. But it’s enough to level me.

"I’m trying to be," she says softly.

The conversation continues. She’s still withdrawn. She still won’t look at me. But we’re talking. For a moment, it feels like maybe we’re finding some kind of ground to stand on. Shaky. Unsteady. But something.

Then the door swings open without warning. And the energy in the room shifts instantly, the fragile balance we were teetering on collapsing in an instant.

Heather Langley strides in, heels clicking sharply against the hardwood, her designer suit a little too tight, her expression a little too smug.

She just storms straight into the room with all the entitled confidence of a woman who believes the world—and everything in it—belongs to her. Her gaze sweeps across the room, sliding dismissively over Max and Silas before landing on Genevieve.

"Oh," she says, her voice syrupy and false. "I’m so sorry to interrupt."

Heather moves toward my desk, her hips swaying just enough to be deliberate. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, the overwhelmingly chemical scent of her perfume hitting me a second later.

I don't react. Not externally.

But the damage is instant.

Every muscle in Genevieve’s body goes rigid. I see it. I feel it. The way she shrinks inward, pulling the pieces of herself tight like armor.

Heather places a manicured hand casually on my arm, tipping forward just enough to make her blouse gap at the chest.

"Sebastian," she purrs, as if we’re picking up a private conversation no one else is invited to overhear. "You didn’t tell me you were having company."

Her tone is a mockery of innocence.

Heather doesn’t acknowledge Genevieve again. She’s too busy trying to reassert her place at my side, marking territory that’s not hers and never will be.

"I thought we had a lunch scheduled today," she says, voice dripping with false sweetness, each word crafted to land where it hurts most. "Or did your plans change?"

Her meaning is clear. Intentional.

Plant the idea in Genevieve’s head that there’s something between us. Remind her that she’s replaceable. That she was never enough.

It’s a cruel, calculated move.

And it works.

Genevieve flinches.