12. Gen
Chapter 12
Gen
I ’m dying.
Okay, not literally. But if someone wanted to slap a “may spontaneously combust” label across my forehead, I wouldn’t object. My skin feels too tight, my head’s pounding, and my stomach hasn’t been right since I woke up.
Which is inconvenient. And also deeply unfair. Because today I’m supposed to meet with Silas Whitmore—an ex-pro athlete, philanthropist, and co-founder of one of the biggest youth initiatives in the country. He also happens to be one-third of the terrifyingly powerful trifecta that includes Max Thorne and Sebastian Wolfe.
And I’m about to show up sweating through my blouse and vibrating with nausea.
I’ve felt like this all week.
Evie leans against the kitchen island, holding a thermometer and a scowl. “Still no fever. But, babe, I mean, look at you. Cancel.”
“I can’t.” I sip from the giant tumbler of ginger tea she made me, hoping it’ll work a miracle in the next ten minutes. “It’s a quick walkthrough and a pitch meeting. Nothing strenuous.”
“You look like you just crawled out of the underworld.”
“I can’t reschedule. It took three days to get this on his calendar.”
“Genevieve.”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead. “Evie.”
“You’re not well.”
“I can rally.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t have a choice.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back. “Sebastian might be a cold, emotionally unavailable man-child with the communication skills of a damp rock, but he opened a door. I’m not about to shut it because I have a little headache.”
Evie narrows her eyes. “You’re pale. You’re clammy. And I saw you put your cereal in the refrigerator this morning and the almond milk in the pantry.”
“That’s not proof of illness. That’s just...creative organizing.”
She doesn’t smile. “Gen.”
I hate how soft her voice gets when she says my name like that. Like she’s bracing for impact.
I set the tea down, bracing myself against the edge of the counter. “I need this, Evie. I need something to go right. I can’t afford to drop the ball. Not now.”
Her face twists. “This isn’t the ball. This is your health.”
“It’s not the flu,” I say, mostly because I want it to be true. “Probably just run down. The Wolfe event drained me. And then—” I break off. I don’t want to say his name.
Evie doesn’t press. Just walks over, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into her side.
I lean into her without argument.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” she murmurs. “Not to him. Not to Silas. Not to anyone.”
But I do. That’s the part she doesn’t understand.
I’ve spent the last four years climbing uphill with nothing but determination and a mood board. No safety net. No family endorsement. No backup plan. And if this meeting falls apart—if I fall apart—then all of the momentum I’ve built will vanish before it has the chance to become something real.
I pull back. Straighten my shoulders. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get through the hour.”
Evie studies me for a second longer. Then sighs and grabs her keys. “Fine. I’m driving you.”
“I can drive.”
“You look like crap. You’re not driving.”
I let her win. Because I already feel dizzy, and I haven’t even left the apartment yet.
She pushes the tea back into my hands, muttering about cold compresses and strong-willed dumbasses under her breath.
I force a smile.
I can get through this.
I don’t have a choice.
* * *
Evie pulls up in front of the Whitmore Foundation’s downtown headquarters and throws the car into park with more force than necessary. She twists in her seat and eyes me like I might try to bolt.
She greatly overestimates my desire to move at the moment. Every subtle shift seems to make my stomach threaten to revolt.
“Do not pass out. Do not throw up on anyone. And text me the second this thing is over so I can come rescue you.”
“I’m not a child. Or a damsel in distress.”
“You’re pale and vibrating and trying to bluff your way through a meeting with a man whose jawline has literally broken hearts.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Call me,” she repeats, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at mine before I even open the door. “Swear it.”
I nod. “Swear it.”
She mutters something about “suit-wearing devils with Olympic sex appeal” as I step out, which doesn’t do anything to help the nervous twist in my stomach.
The exterior of the The Whitmore Foundation building is sleek but not flashy—glass and steel and thoughtful landscaping, all clean lines and community values. The lobby displays minimalist design notes and smells faintly of cedar and citrus, a scent that somehow doesn’t make my stomach turn over on itself. Small victories.
There’s a wall of plaques behind the reception desk, engraved with the names of scholarship recipients, donors, and corporate sponsors. A few sports trophies are displayed tastefully in a glass case near the elevators.
It’s more understated than I would have expected from someone like Silas Whitmore. He’s always been flash and fancy, even in retirement.
The receptionist greets me with a smile and leads me through a short hallway before gesturing toward a partially open door. “He’s expecting you.”
I smooth my blouse, inhale once, and step inside.
And there he is.
Silas is seated on the edge of the conference table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top button undone, forearms flexed just enough to be distracting. He’s taller than I expected. Broader too. Built like he still trains seven days a week, though the smile that spreads across his face when he sees me is warm.
“Genevieve St. Claire,” he says, sliding off the table and walking toward me. “You are even prettier than your pitch deck.”
I blink. “That’s not a line I expected to hear today.”
He grins mischievously. “Then I’m off to a good start.”
We shake hands, though his grip lingers a beat too long to be strictly professional. His fingers are rougher than Max’s. Warmer than Sebastian’s. More...real.
“I hope you didn’t mind the change of venue,” he says. “The hotel we’d been planning on using fell through for…unfortunate reasons. The team’s got the gala kitchen prepped downstairs. Chef’s already setting up a sample spread. I figured we could stop down there after we walk through the event space.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, though my voice feels thin in my throat.
He tilts his head, eyes skimming over me with a kind of easy curiosity. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I nod too quickly. “Just...long week.”
His smile softens. “Say the word and I’ll reschedule the meeting and send you home with a gift basket and a spa voucher.”
“I’m good. I swear.” I straighten my shoulders. “I came prepared.”
He laughs, and the sound is so easy, so unguarded, that it makes something ache in my chest.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him toward the elevator at the back of the room. “We’ll check out the event space first, then swing through the kitchen and end with the tasting. Unless you want to flip the order. I’m flexible.”
“I’m perfectly fine with the schedule as is.”
I walk beside him, grateful for the slow pace and the small talk. Nothing about this feels forced. Unlike Max, whose gaze dissected me, or Sebastian, who stripped me bare with a look, Silas feels...safe.
And that, weirdly, is the most dangerous part.
He’s flirtatious. Effortlessly charming. He teases without pushing, his energy warm but not overbearing. He holds the elevator door open with one hand and steps in beside me with the other, and my brain goes straight to chaos.
Because this isn’t supposed to happen.
I’m not supposed to be noticing how his shirt stretches across his chest. Or how good he smells—clean and woodsy. I’m not supposed to feel the low flutter of nerves in my stomach every time he glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
And I’m definitely not supposed to be comparing that flutter to what I felt with Sebastian. Or Max.
But I am.
And that’s when my brain does the worst thing it could possibly do.
What if that’s why Sebastian referred me?
What if this isn’t about my work at all? What if I’m just a favor passed around between friends? A name dropped in a group chat. A warm body with a decent portfolio. A pat on the back between men who trade women like business cards. Something to entertain, then discard. The humiliation curdles hot in my chest, climbing fast and sharp.
I stumble—just slightly—but enough for Silas to notice.
“Whoa,” Silas says, steadying me with a hand on my elbow. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod too fast again. “Yes. Sorry. Just—clumsy.”
His eyes scan my face, concern tightening the space between his brows. “You’re pale.”
“I just—didn’t sleep well.” It’s not a lie. Not really. My brain hasn’t shut off since Sebastian left. Since the note.
And now here I am, standing in front of one of his best friends, trying to keep my footing while every alarm in my body starts to scream.
This is exactly why I need to get it together. Shut this down. Refocus. Now.
Silas has a bit of a reputation—a very different one from Sebastian Wolfe. He’s a flirt, a charmer, and a serial monogamist. And me? I just lost my virginity to a man who made me swear I belonged to him yet didn’t even have the decency to drop me face-to-face.
I can’t afford to fall into that trap again. Especially if it’s a setup of some kind.
But there’s something different about this.
I consider the way Silas looks at me. He doesn’t push or seem to expect anything. He doesn’t seem to be playing a game at all.
If this is a setup—if this is part of some unspoken, unholy bachelor’s club—I’m starting to think it’s not the kind I’ve ever encountered before.
We reach the event floor, and I do my best to focus. Silas walks me through the space—the layout, the lighting options, the seating chart ideas he’s considering for the gala. He makes jokes, tells stories about past events that went sideways, asks for my opinion and actually listens when I give it. He’s engaged. Present. Easy to talk to.
And when we circle back toward the tasting setup, he reaches for a plate of prosciutto-wrapped figs, offers one to me with a grin, and says, “Just don’t throw it at me if you hate it.”
I smile, a real one this time, softer than I mean it to be. Our fingers brush as I take the fig, and something in the air shifts. His eyes drop to my mouth. Mine to his.
It’s not a move, not really. It’s a pause—curious, warm, electric. His gaze lingers like he’s waiting for a sign or an invitation.
I think I might give it to him.
And then the room tilts.
My stomach flips. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges.
I take one step back. Then another. Then I sprint to the trash can in the corner and throw up everything I ate this morning.
Mortification burns hotter than the fever in my cheeks. I slump over the trash can, eyes watering, throat raw, praying for the earth to open and swallow me whole.
This is it. Career over. Dignity gone. He’s going to walk out. He’s going to tell everyone I’m a disaster. I’m going to have to move to a remote mountain village and sell woven baskets.
A warm hand lands on my back.
“Okay,” Silas says, voice low and calm. “That’s one way to say you’re not feeling the menu.”
I cough and let out a weak, horrified laugh. “I am so sorry—this is—I don’t know what’s wrong with me?—”
“You’re sick.” His hand stays steady as he crouches beside me. “And you shouldn’t have come in. But since you did, I’m not letting you Uber home and pass out in your entryway.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, trying to sit up. “I just need a minute?—”
“Genevieve.” His voice softens. “No more pretending. You’re not okay. And that’s okay.”
Something in me cracks at the gentle way he says it.
“I’m going to get you some ginger ale. You’re going to sit down. And we’ll reschedule. No pressure, no judgment. And if it helps your ego, I’ll tell everyone I overwhelmed you with my charm.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
It’s breathy and weak and definitely doesn’t erase the mortification, but it helps.
And so does the way he helps me to a nearby chair, brings me a bottle of cold ginger ale, and crouches in front of me like he’s not worried about his very expensive pants touching the floor.
“Let me get you home,” he says. “You can dazzle me next time.”
I nod, throat thick. “Okay.”
“Good.” He offers me a crooked smile punctuated by perfect dimples. “Though I gotta say, that’s the first time I’ve ever made a woman throw up on sight. I’m flattered.”
I groan into my hands. “Please stop.”
He chuckles. “Never.”
And somehow, I know he means it.