Page 97 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

They stay with me, moving together, moving with me, until we all collapse into a tangled, exhausted heap of limbs.

I let them hold me.

And I know I’m going to be okay.

Chapter28

Sebastian

She’s gone. She’s gone, and I let her go.

I stand there for a long moment, frozen in place, the weight of her absence pressing down on me. I should go after her. Chase her down, make her listen.

Instead, I return to my office.

Heather is still standing there, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at her overly glossed mouth.

She thinks she's won something.

She thinks she matters.

My fury is instantaneous and cold enough to clear the haze Genevieve left behind. I adjust the cuffs of my shirt slowly, tamping down the urge to lash out. Giving her any more of my energy would be a mistake. She’s not worth the anger coiling low and tight in my gut.

Without looking at her, I speak.

"Get out.”

Heather blinks, thrown for a fraction of a second. Then her smile falters, warps into something petulant.

"Sebastian—" she starts, taking a step toward me, that cloying scent of hers hitting me again. "You’re upset. I understand. But you’re not thinking clearly. We should talk?—"

I lift my gaze to hers, and whatever she sees in my expression stops her mid-step.

"No," I say, voice flat and precise. “There is absolutely nothing to talk about. I have no interest in hiring you. I have no interest in sleeping with you. In fact, I’ll be instructing my lobby staff to ban you from this building.”

For the first time since she burst into this room, real unease flickers across her face. Her lips part, searching for an argument, some foothold she can claw onto. But there isn’t one. There never was.

"You don’t mean that," she says, but the confidence has drained from her tone.

I step further into my office, deliberately erasing the distance between us, forcing her to take a stumbling half-step back.

"I don’t give warnings, Heather," I tell her. "You had one shot to conduct yourself professionally. You failed."

Her mouth snaps shut.

"Now," I continue, my voice dropping even lower, "you’re going to walk out of this office, and you’re going to pray I’m feeling generous enough not to bury your career where you stand."

She stiffens, her mouth flattening into a thin line. For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to argue. But then she remembers where she is—and who she’s dealing with. She holds my stare for a long moment, something ugly twisting her features. But she doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns on her heel and stalks toward the door, throwing it open with more force than necessary. The bang of it hitting the wall echoes in the otherwise silent office.

Good riddance.

I stand there long after she’s gone, the office finally empty. The city sprawls out beyond the windows, but I don’t see a thing. I drag a hand down my face, my fingers pressing into my temples as if I can physically squeeze the tension out of my skull.

I could have fixed it.

I had one chance to stop the hemorrhaging. I could have said three words—no, I didn’t—and none of this would have happened.

Genevieve would have stayed.