14. Silas
Chapter 14
Silas
F our brown paper bags sit beside me on the back seat, each one stamped with a high-end restaurant logo. Italian. Thai. Mediterranean. Indian. I even threw in a box of pastries from a bakery in Brooklyn that charges twenty-two dollars for a croissant. Because women love pastries, right?
Or maybe that’s just me.
My driver pulls to a quiet stop in front of a brownstone tucked into a residential street in Williamsburg. Genevieve’s address. I didn’t get it from Max or Sebastian—even though I know they have it. The two of them are too neurotic not to know everything there is to know about someone they hire.
No, I got it from my driver, who drove her home after our first meeting. I told him I was checking in on a colleague. He didn’t ask questions. Good man.
I stare up at the stoop, pulse beating faster than it should. This is probably a terrible idea. The kind of idea that ends with restraining orders or awkward headlines about washed-up athletes stalking young event planners. I haven’t stalked anyone though. I just…showed up. With food. On instinct.
Totally normal courtship ritual. Nothing to see here.
I grab the bags and head up the steps, ignoring the little voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Max telling me this is overkill.
Maybe it is.
But she didn’t look okay today. Not even close.
Even if I hadn’t been completely enamored by the pretty young event planner, I’d still be standing here. Unannounced. Bags in hand. Pretending this is what normal, well-adjusted people do when a colleague seems off.
Because that’s what this is. Concern.
Totally normal—definitely not reckless—concern.
I press the buzzer. Wait. Then buzz again. A beat passes before the door cracks open, chain still in place.
Genevieve peers through the gap, expression guarded. “Silas?”
“Hey,” I say, holding up the bags. “I come bearing carbs. And mild concern.”
She blinks. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking in. You didn’t seem great earlier. And I wasn’t sure what you like, so I panicked and ordered half the city.”
Her eyes drop to the bags. “Is that…Massimo’s?”
“Among others. I also have curry, falafel, and something I can’t pronounce but smells amazing. Please say you’re not allergic to anything. Or offended by spontaneous visits from unreasonably attractive men.”
She gives me a look. Dry. Tired. But a little amused.
Then the door shuts. I blink, wondering if that was a no.
The chain slides. The door opens wider.
“Come in before the neighbors think I’m running an underground Michelin delivery ring.”
I step inside, careful not to bump the walls with the bags. Her place smells faintly of lavender and citrus—clean, lived-in, undeniably her.
She’s barefoot, dressed in a worn T-shirt and leggings that hang a little too loose on her frame. Her hair is pulled back in a lopsided knot, and her eyes are rimmed with the kind of red that only comes from wiping away tears you don’t want anyone to see.
It hits me square in the chest.
She leads me to the kitchen, where I unload everything across her counter like I’m about to host a tasting. “Didn’t know what you’d want,” I say, unpacking boxes. “So I figured volume over precision.”
“You realize this is enough to feed a small army, right?”
“Perfect. I eat for two when I’m stressed.”
She smiles. It’s small, a little frayed at the edges. But it’s there.
That’s a start.
“Pick your poison,” I say, stepping back to let her scan the spread.
She hesitates, glancing behind her like she’s not sure letting me in was a good idea. I don’t blame her. If someone showed up to my place uninvited with half of Manhattan’s takeout scene, I’d probably call security.
“Silas, I appreciate this. Really. But you didn’t have to?—”
“I know.” My voice softens. “That’s why I did it.”
She blinks again. This time, it looks like she’s trying not to cry.
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair and grab two plates. “Okay. One bite of everything. Then we can sit, pretend this is normal, and you can lie to my face about how fine you are. Deal?”
She exhales a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I get that a lot.”
We sit at her small kitchen table, elbows bumping, plates overloaded. She picks at a few bites, more out of politeness than hunger. I do most of the talking—something about my last board meeting, the gala menu revisions, a brief tangent about the time I got food poisoning before a televised interview and powered through with an IV drip backstage.
She listens. Smiles when she thinks I’m being extra—which, to be fair, I am. I keep it light. Keep it steady.
But I’m watching her. Always watching.
Because beneath the smile and the soft laugh, her eyes are glassy and her hands shake just enough to make my chest ache.
Something is wrong.
And I’m not leaving until I know what.
She sets her fork down and pushes what’s left of her pasta around the plate with her thumb, shoulders sinking just enough to signal surrender. Not a dramatic collapse. Just the kind of subtle unraveling you only notice when you’re really looking.
“I’m sorry,” she says after a long pause, her voice quiet. “You came all the way over here and I can’t even pretend to be normal.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” I say, and I mean it. “It's not like you invited me.”
She exhales like that’s the worst thing I could have said. Her hands come up to press against her eyes, elbows on the table, shoulders curling inward. “I don’t even know how to talk about it.”
“Then don’t,” I offer gently. “You don’t owe me anything, Gen. You don’t mind if I call you Gen, right? I just...wanted to make sure you ate. And maybe make you smile. Anything beyond that is a bonus.”
She’s silent for a beat. Then she drops her hands and leans back, staring at the ceiling like maybe she’ll find answers there. Her throat moves on a swallow. Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt.
And then, so softly I almost miss it, “I’m pregnant.”
The words hit like a fist to the sternum. Not because I didn’t see it coming. I did. Somewhere between the pale skin and the too-loose clothes and the way her hand kept drifting to her stomach, I knew. Or maybe I hoped I was wrong.
I just didn’t expect how much it would gut me to hear her say it.
My grip on my water glass tightens but I don’t let it show in my face. She doesn't need to feel like she's being judged.
“You’re sure?” I ask carefully.
She nods, still not looking at me. “Multiple tests. Evie made me take them. I didn’t believe it at first, but—” Her voice cracks. “It’s real.”
I don’t know who Evie is, but it must be someone she trusts. I'm glad she had someone with her. From her behavior it's clear the father isn't exactly in the picture.
I want to ask who. I want to demand to know. But I already know.
There’s only one answer that makes sense.
Sebastian.
Of course it’s him. Of course.
His behavior as of late has been uncharacteristically avoidant. He recommended this girl immediately but refuses to talk about her. I can barely get him in person anymore. He always has some ready excuse as to why he can’t come.
I breathe slowly. Carefully. Fighting the urge to bolt, or punch something, or pull my phone out and text him a string of words I’ll regret.
Instead, I meet her eyes. “What do you need?”
That startles her. “What?”
“Right now. What do you need? To yell? To cry? To throw something? Or do you want me to just sit here and shut up and hold your hand through the part where you fall apart?”
She stares at me like she’s never had someone ask that before.
And honestly? She probably hasn’t. Which is a fucking crime.
“I don’t know what I need,” she whispers. “Everything just feels…cracked. Like I took a step and the ground gave out and I’m still falling.”
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.
“Then I’ll catch you.”
Her eyes shine. Her bottom lip wobbles. And this time, when she cries, she doesn’t apologize for it. She just lets it happen—quiet and messy and real.
I squeeze her hand tighter.
And I silently promise that whatever this is, wherever it goes, she won’t go through it alone.
She wipes at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, laughing softly through the tears. “God, this is so humiliating.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “It’s brave.”
She gives me a look like she wants to believe that. Like she almost does. But the corners of her mouth twitch with doubt.
I don’t push. I just stay right where I am, doing what I do best: showing up and pretending it’s easy, even when my chest is tight with something I don’t know how to name yet.
I know what this looks like. It’s a pattern I’ve fallen into over and over. The girl with the sad eyes and a chaotic past. The one who lets me in just far enough to catch feelings before realizing she never wanted more than the lifestyle, the headline, the high-end perks. I always fall fast. Always hit the ground alone.
But Genevieve?
I don’t think she wants anything from me.
She didn’t ask me to show up here. And, although she told me about the pregnancy, she hasn’t asked for help. She didn’t even tell me what she was going through until she cracked under the weight of it. And now that I’m here, she keeps trying to protect me from it—like her pain is a burden, her truth too heavy to share.
That’s not a grifter. That’s not a gold digger or a social climber.
That’s someone who’s scared out of her mind and still trying to handle it alone.
I watch the way she curls her fingers tighter around mine without thinking. Her shoulders sag with exhaustion. She flinches like she’s expecting me to pull away.
I won’t.
I lean back just enough to see her face, to read the guilt and confusion swimming behind her eyes.
“You don’t have to be ashamed,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Not with me.”
She presses her lips together. “You don’t even know me.”
I smile. Not a cocky one. Not flirty. Just soft. “Maybe not. But I know what it looks like when someone’s trying to hold themselves together with duct tape and a smile.”
That earns me a snort. Barely.
I take a breath. Swallow down everything I probably shouldn’t be feeling.
She’s young. So much younger than me. And she’s pregnant. With someone else’s baby. Probably Sebastian’s. And that should bother me.
So, why doesn’t it?
Maybe because when I look at her—really look at her—I don’t see someone else’s mistake. I see her. The curve of her spine as she bends under pressure, but doesn’t break. The fire behind her eyes when she thinks no one is watching. The softness in her voice when she talks to people like they matter. Her soul is loud, even when she’s quiet.
And somehow, without ever meaning to, I’ve already started falling.
Hard.