Page 93 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

I don't even slow down.

If I stop, I'll lose every scrap of dignity I have left. I’ll say something I’ll regret, something that will leave even deeper scars. If I stop, I'll give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he still owns me, even after everything.

The hallway outside the office feels endless, a gauntlet I have to survive with my head held high.

I’m halfway to the elevators before I hear his footsteps behind me.

Quicker this time. Desperate. He’s always quick when it’s too late.

Sebastian moves in front of me, cutting off my path with his body.

"Don’t walk away from me," he says, his voice rough and raw in a way that almost makes me falter. Almost.

"Not like this."

"Like what, Sebastian?" I snap, pointing my finger at him. "Like you walked away from me?"

The words echo down the too-bright hallway.

His jaw locks tight, the muscles twitching under his skin. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deliberate breath.

"I know I fucked up," he says finally. "I know I don’t deserve anything from you. But I swear to God, Genevieve, I want to fix this."

I tilt my head, studying him with a calmness I don't feel.

"You can't fix this," I say quietly.

He steps closer, and I resist the instinct to step back.

"I want to be in the baby’s life," he says, his voice a low, fierce growl. "I want to be in your life."

When I don’t answer, he steps closer, reaching for my hand. “I’ll do anything. Tell me what I can do. Tell me what to do, Genevieve.”

My throat tightens painfully. I force myself to meet his gaze.

"Tell me you didn’t sleep with her."

The question slices through the fragile air between us, leaving a jagged wound in its place.

Sebastian doesn't answer. He doesn't deny it. He doesn't say anything at all. He just stands there, stone-faced and silent, and I understand more in that awful, aching silence than I would from a thousand shouted denials.

It’s answer enough.

The last of my breath leaves my body in a shuddering exhale.

I take a step back, then another, putting physical distance between us because it’s the only thing I can control anymore.

"Then there’s nothing you can do," I say, my voice flat.

I turn and walk away, my steps mechanical, each one a conscious decision not to turn around. I will not let him see the tears blurring the edges of my vision.

This time, he doesn’t follow.

I make it to the elevator before the shaking starts.

At first, it’s subtle—a tremor in my fingertips, a slight unsteadiness in my knees—but by the time I press the call button, it feels like my whole body is betraying me. The adrenaline that carried me down the hallway drains out of my system, leaving a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion in its place.

I hear footsteps pounding behind me, two distinct sets, moving fast.