11. Silas
Chapter 11
Silas
T here’s a particular kind of luxury that doesn’t scream money so much as it whispers it—smooth, seductive, entirely unbothered by flash. That’s the kind of place I’m sitting in now. A rooftop bar in Midtown, tucked twelve stories above the chaos down below. It has everything you could possibly need: low lighting, leather seating, and a skyline view that people spend a lot of money for. The bourbon here is aged longer than most marriages. The clientele? Powerful. Discreet. Expensively bored.
It still feels weird being part of this crowd.
I lounge on a corner banquette, sleeves rolled, top two buttons undone, nursing a pour of my favorite bourbon. I’ve been recognized twice already—once by the hostess, who gave me the best seat without asking, and once by a hedge fund baby who tried to pitch me a crypto sponsorship for one of the youth initiatives I fund. I waved him off with a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
But I know more are coming. Two tables have already clocked me, one full of finance wives sipping gin and tonics and pretending not to look, and another with a junior associate crowd, each man trying to out-alpha the other with their drink orders. I could play along—order something obscure, flash the charm—but I’m not in the mood. Not tonight.
I know they recognize me. Most do if they look long enough. Not because I’m relevant—hell, I haven’t played in years—but because once you’ve had your face on a billboard or your stats scrolling across ESPN, people don’t forget. Not really. They just reframe you. Turn you into trivia.
This city never lets you forget what it thinks you should be impressed by. Money. Power. The perfect highlight reel. And some nights, I wonder if I’ve started to buy into it too.
Max is late. Not that I’m surprised. The man treats punctuality like a religion when it comes to business, but casually discards it in social settings. Which says a lot, considering how rarely he agrees to drinks at all. If I hadn’t mentioned Genevieve St. Claire, he probably would’ve canceled.
Still, if he flakes, I’ll consider it a declaration of war.
I take a slow sip, let the bourbon burn its way down, and tilt my head toward the breeze. I should probably be prepping for tomorrow’s walkthrough with Genevieve St. Claire. Instead, I’m imagining what she’ll look like in person—if the woman Sebastian recommended is as compelling as the proposal she sent over. Something tells me she is.
Max finally arrives ten minutes past the hour, looking every inch the boardroom predator. Rolled sleeves, pressed slacks, that air of silent judgment that’s made a dozen grown men stammer through acquisition pitches. No tie, naturally. His version of dressing down is still expensive enough to bankrupt a small country, though.
He slides into the seat across from me and says nothing.
“You’re late,” I say, sipping. “I was starting to think I’d been stood up.”
“I don’t stand people up.”
“You just make them question your interest.”
He doesn’t answer. He just nods to the server, who materializes with his drink like they rehearsed it. Max sips once, then sets the glass down. It’s always like this with him. Precise. Measured. As if showing too much interest would qualify as a breach of contract.
I sip. Wait. Let the silence hang long enough to pull at him.
Finally, he breaks. “She’s better than I expected.”
“Genevieve?”
A nod.
“Better how?”
He glances out at the skyline. “Sharp. Composed. Strategic. She doesn’t posture. Doesn’t sell herself short either.”
“Pretty?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Sebastian’s taste is rarely off the mark, and if he handed this woman a major launch event, she’s either stunning or ruthless. Possibly both.
He lifts a brow. “She’s not unaware of her effect on people.”
That’s a non-answer if I’ve ever heard one. I grin. “That sounds dangerously close to appreciation.”
“I appreciate competence.”
“Mmm. And legs that go on for days?”
“She’s professional. Driven. Smart.”
“Ah.” I grin. “Your favorite kind of dangerous.”
Max lifts a brow. “I didn’t say she was dangerous.”
“No, but you’re acting like she is. You’ve got that edge to your voice—the one you get when you’re trying to convince yourself you don’t care.”
“She’s a vendor.”
“So was Elise.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not the same.”
I let it go. Max hates to talk about Elise, and I didn’t drag him here to pick at old scars.
“Sebastian really didn’t say much about her,” I say, shifting gears. “Just that she pulled off Wolfe Island like a pro.”
“He hates it when you call it that.”
“Well, I’m not calling it by that ridiculously pretentious name he chose.”
Max watches me. “You meeting with her before the board dinner?”
“Tomorrow morning. We’ll be touring the facility and going over the basics. Plus, a private tasting with the gala chef. Should give me a good read on how she handles curveballs.”
“She’ll handle them just fine.”
“That a guess or a vow of confidence?”
He doesn’t answer. Before I can push further, Sebastian walks in.
He’s a shadow in a bespoke suit, cutting through the low light with precision. No smile. No warmth. Just presence. Controlled and severe, the kind of man who makes everyone in a room sit up a little straighter.
He doesn’t scan for us. Doesn’t check his phone. Just walks straight to our table and slides into the seat between me and Max like he hasn’t been dodging our texts for the last five days.
“Didn’t think you were coming,” I say.
“You were wrong.”
“You’re late.”
“I wasn’t aware I owed you punctuality.”
“You don’t,” I say, watching him closely. “But the silence these last few days? That feels like avoidance.”
Max doesn’t say anything. He just watches him with his typical analytical stare.
Sebastian flags the server down with a nod and orders a bourbon—neat, of course—and turns his gaze out to the skyline as if we’re not staring at him. His voice is smooth, his posture relaxed, but everything about him feels tight. Restrained. Controlled in a way that means he’s not.
Max keeps studying him in that quiet, clinical way of his. The way he always does when he suspects something’s off and hasn’t decided whether to dig or wait.
I lean back. “So. Genevieve St. Claire.”
His eyes cut to mine. I can see the wall go up immediately. Interesting. “What about her?”
“She’s on my calendar tomorrow.”
“She’s capable.”
“That’s all?”
Sebastian doesn’t answer right away. He lifts his drink when it arrives, takes a slow sip, then sets it back down.
“I recommended her, didn’t I?”
“That tells me exactly nothing.”
He sighs and gives me a look that would flatten a mere mortal. “She executed a high-pressure event with almost no prep time and exceeded every metric I laid out. That’s what matters.”
Max’s brow lifts slightly. “That’s not what you said when you recommended her.”
“I don’t recall waxing poetic.”
“You referred to her as ‘fucking excellent’,” I remind him. “And now you’re talking like she’s a spreadsheet.”
Another pause. Another sip.
“She is excellent,” he concedes. “Doesn’t mean I want to sit around dissecting her skillset.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You always go cold when you’re hiding something.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicks to mine. “I go cold when I’m bored, Silas.”
“Are you?” Max asks.
Sebastian shrugs. “Not yet.”
Which tells me everything.
There’s something there. He’s not talking about it, but it’s not gone either. Not dismissed. I know Sebastian Wolfe. He doesn’t avoid women. He avoids attachment. If he’s dodging a subject, it’s because it stuck. And nothing sticks unless it matters.
“Is that why you’re brooding?”
“I don’t brood, asshole.”
Max smirks faintly. “You are now.”
I throw my hands up. “Unbelievable. How did I end up with two of the broodiest men in Manhattan as my best friends? And they lie. Constantly. About their feelings. About the brooding .”
Neither of them reacts. Which only proves my point.
I lean back, sip my drink, and shake my head like I’m genuinely wounded. “I bring charisma. Levity. Balance. And in return? I get glacial stares and denial. This friendship is wildly unequal.”
Sebastian doesn’t even blink.
Max looks vaguely amused. Which, by Max standards, is basically a standing ovation. Then, to really drive the point home, I raise my glass.
“To Genevieve,” I say. “May she survive all three of us.”
Max doesn’t smile. Sebastian doesn’t raise his glass.
But I do.
And something tells me this is just the beginning. Though the beginning of what, I’m not quite sure.