Page 34 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Knox

Right when I think this week can’t get any worse… it does.

The dinner rush is in full swing, and the walls are closing in.

The kitchen’s boiling hot. I’ve got one fryer down, a food blogger asking to "tour the back for his followers," and a group of girls in old LA Knights jerseys ordering every damn item on the menu just to take pictures of it and leave half untouched.

It’s still happening.

So-called fans are still swarming The Marrow.

And I’m two seconds away from losing it.

I duck into the walk-in just to breathe. Cold air hits my skin. I count to ten. Then twenty.

When I step back out, Wes is waiting with a ticket in one hand and a strange look on his face.

“What now?” I mutter, snatching the slip.

He doesn’t answer. He jerks his chin toward the front of the house, where something, or someone , is clearly causing a ripple.

That’s when I hear it.

A laugh. A familiar, syrupy smooth noise. A sound I haven’t heard in years and hoped I never would again.

It freezes me in place.

No. No way.

Another voice joins it, one of the hostesses, overly polite. Nervous.

And then: “No way, you are Savannah Monroe!”

Fuck .

The name slams into me like a freight train.

I don’t move, not yet. Can’t. My pulse is thunder in my ears, and every cell in my body is locked in place.

She’s here.

She’s actually here.

I round the corner slowly, dread curling in my gut like smoke, and then I see her.

Savannah.

As glossy as the last time I saw her, like not a day has passed. Red lipstick. White coat. Sunglasses perched on her head like a damn tiara. The restaurant hums with a low buzz, people recognizing her, whispering, pulling out phones.

And she’s loving it.

She stands in the middle of The Marrow like she owns it. One perfectly manicured hand resting lightly on the hostess stand, eyes scanning the room, searching. Until they find me.

Then she smiles.

That smile. All teeth and lies and showbiz charm.

“Knox,” she says, like she’s just bumped into me at a charity gala, not my fucking restaurant.

Everything in me recoils.

I step forward slowly, my body taut with the kind of tension that doesn’t come from cooking or stress, but from memory.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I keep my voice steady, but I can already feel the fire building.

Savannah tilts her head, eyes lighting up with mock surprise. “Relax. I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by, see the place. It's quaint.”

I grit my teeth. “Try again.”

She shrugs, stepping closer, like this is a game. “You’re trending, baby. People are talking. That video? Adorable. You and the new girl? So sweet. Couldn’t stay away.”

There it is. The real reason.

She’s not here for me. She’s here for the attention. For the spotlight. The moment the world looked in my direction again, she followed the flashbulbs like a moth to flame.

And just like that, the flashbacks hit…

I’m thirty-one years old all over again.

My knee’s wrecked, torn in two places, bone bruising, cartilage shredded. The doctors say I’ll be lucky to play again, but they don’t say it to my face. They say it to my agent, to the press, to anyone but me. I’m benched. Useless. A has been before I even hit thirty-five.

I’m living off painkillers, sleeping in thirty-minute bursts, icing until my skin goes numb to keep from screaming. Every morning starts with a limp and ends with a pill.

I’m in the locker room, cold and fluorescent. Head between my hands. Numb. It smells like sweat and liniment and loss.

Then I hear her heels before I see her.

Click. Click. Click.

Savannah.

She steps in like she owns the place. Hair blown out, makeup flawless, wearing a designer coat, and that smug kind of calm that always used to rattle me. The calm of someone who already knows how this conversation will end.

I glance up. “What are you doing back here?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She looks at me for a beat too long.

And then she drops a bomb.

“I’m pregnant, Knox.”

Three words. No emotion. No warning. No softness.

My ears ring.

I sit up straighter, heart hammering. “What?”

“I’m late. Took two tests. We’re having a baby.”

Her voice is so steady. Like she’s ordering a drink. Like she’s not just cracked open the floor beneath my feet.

I stare at her, trying to wrap my head around it.

My hands are shaking, so I fold them into fists.

I should have asked more questions. I should have said, Are you sure? or How do you feel about this? But I don’t. Because even at my lowest, even when I’m circling the damn drain, something in me wants to do the right thing.

So I nod.

I make promises.

I tell myself this is a sign, a chance to turn things around.

I focus and go to physical therapy. I focus on us.

I stare down the barrel of a future I didn’t plan for and convince myself I’m lucky to have it.

And then, weeks before training camp, at her family’s home, she tells me she lost it.

She’s crying. Shaking. She says it happened in the night. Quiet. Unstoppable.

I hold her. I cry, too.

I tell myself it’s no one’s fault. That we’ll get through it.

That I’ll stay.

But she doesn’t cry when no one else is around. She doesn’t flinch when she’s alone.

And something starts to not add up.

Her story shifts, the timelines wobble. She slips up. Once. Twice.

And then, one night, after a fight I barely remember, she says it like it’s nothing: “There never was a baby.”

Just like that.

Flat. Cold. Clean.

I stand there, stunned, while she peels off her earrings and talks about brand potential and keeping our relationship on track like none of it was real anyway.

Like I’m the fool for thinking it was.

That night, I walk out of our penthouse and never go back.

But walking out doesn’t fix what’s already broken.

I can’t deny it any longer. My body’s shot. My name’s a punchline on sports radio. The calls stop coming. Endorsements dry up. The press moves on to the next shiny rookie. The only thing still chasing me is the pain, physical, emotional, all of it bleeding together like ink in water.

I drift through LA because it’s loud enough to drown in and anonymous enough to disappear.

I drink too much. Fight too easily. Piss off everyone who ever gave a damn.

And then one night, I end up outside a soup kitchen, soaked from the rain, reeking of bourbon and rock bottom. My knee is screaming. My head’s a warzone. I haven’t slept in two days. There’s a part of me that wonders: would anyone notice if I disappeared?

That’s when it happens.

Someone hands me a cup of coffee.

And that’s how I meet Jacques Dufort.

Retired Michelin-starred chef.

His no-nonsense attitude turned my life around, led me to The Marrow, and to Silver Peak.

And it has been my haven…

For a while.

Now, standing in my sanctuary, I realize my fists are clenched at my sides.

“You need to leave.”

Savannah blinks. “Wow. No hello? Not even a hug?”

“You think this is cute?” I snap. “You think this is some kind of reunion special?”

“I think people love a comeback story,” she says coolly. “And we had a good one, didn’t we? The golden boy and the girl who?—”

“You lied to me.”

That gets her.

She goes quiet. Just for a beat.

“You know you did,” I continue without any details. She doesn’t need them, nor do the onlookers. “And now you walk in here like it’s some PR stunt?”

She flinches.

Good.

“This isn’t LA,” I growl. “And I’m not that guy anymore. So turn around, Savannah. Walk out that door. And don’t ever come back.”

But she doesn’t move.

Instead, she takes a slow step forward, the air between us turning cold despite the heat rolling off the line behind me. Her voice drops low, soft, almost seductive. Calculated.

“I made mistakes,” she says, “but we were good once, Knox. We could be again.”

She places a hand on my arm. Familiar. Too familiar.

I jerk back like she’s burned me.

Her eyes widen slightly, surprised I didn’t play along. That the old script isn’t working.

She tries again.

“I know you’ve got something new here,” she says, her tone feigning warmth. “But that girl? Come on. She’s temporary. You and me, though? We were the real thing.”

Then, as if proving her point, she leans in.

And I know it’s coming before it happens.

I see it in the shift of her body. The way her lashes lower like she’s in a perfume ad. The way she tilts her chin, soft and calculated. One manicured hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of my shirt, just over my heart, like she still knows exactly where to aim.

Her lips part slightly, glossy and pink, and she steps in close. Too close.

Like this is muscle memory. Like I’ll just fall back into it.

She rises up on her toes, breath hitching ever so slightly, her gaze flicking to my mouth, and for one second, one heartbeat, I know exactly what she’s about to do.

She tries to kiss me.

Slow. Smooth. Like she’s slipping back into an old rhythm, expecting me to meet her halfway.

But I don’t.

I pull back like she slapped me.

The air between us snaps taut with the recoil. Her hand falls from my chest, fingers curling into a fist like she can’t believe I moved.

Like I broke the script.

The look on her face, confusion, then offense, should satisfy me. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because all I feel is clarity.

Crystal fucking clear.

I stare at her, and all I can think is: This was never love.

Not even close.

It was pressure and image and performance. Smoke and mirrors dressed up in designer heels. I mistook her ambition for affection, her manipulation for devotion. I thought pain was just part of the package.

But now?

Now I know better.

I know what it feels like to want someone down to your bones. To crave their laugh more than their approval. To miss the little things, like the way they talk to plants or hum while stirring sauce, or blush when someone flirts with them in line at the bakery.

I know what it feels like to be seen. Held. Chosen.

Josie.

That’s the difference.

Savannah was a habit.

Josie’s a heartbeat.

“You should go,” I say again, voice low and even.

Her expression shifts, flickers of disbelief, then irritation, and finally something cold and haughty, the mask sliding back into place.

She steps back, fixing her coat with a dramatic tug. “I actually think I want something to eat. Any tables free? You need to sit with me because I have a lot I need to tell you.”

Oh no…