17. Max
Chapter 17
Max
G enevieve St. Claire is unraveling.
Not in a loud, dramatic way. There’s no tears, no outbursts. She still stands straight, still keeps her voice even, still makes those neat little notes in the margins of her event planner like everything’s fine. But I know what I’m looking at.
She holds onto control almost as well as I do. But her facade is cracking.
It’s the kind of fraying that happens when someone pushes themselves past their limit and keeps going anyway. She keeps touching her stomach. I don't think she's even aware she’s doing it. And her eyes…her eyes are losing their light.
I watch from a few feet away, hands in my pockets, trying not to hover. Hovering makes people uncomfortable. I'm already unsettling enough as it is. I’ve been told I come off cold. Detached. And maybe that’s fair—I don’t do well with...people. Not in the day-to-day sense. Not in the sense where you notice a woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes anymore.
Except I do notice. Because it’s Genevieve.
She’s hunched over a folding table, trying to measure the spacing between mockups for the lounge seating. It’s the third time she’s dropped the tape. I watch as she retrieves it with a muttered breath, the motion just a little slower than it should be. There’s color missing from her face. Her shoulders are up around her ears. Her blouse is wrinkled, her hair is pulled back too harshly.
She speaks before I can. “If you’re going to critique the placement, do it quickly. I know I’m off by at least an inch.”
Her voice has bite, but it’s worn down at the edges. I’ve heard her sharp before. This isn’t that.
“You’ve dropped your tape measure three times,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
She glances up at me, a flicker of irritation in her expression. “You’re not my doctor, Mr. Thorne.”
“And you’re not convincing anyone.”
Her mouth opens, probably to argue, but then—of course—Silas arrives.
Again.
It’s the third time he’s just “happened to be in the area” when I have a scheduled walkthrough with Genevieve. I don’t believe in coincidences. I also don’t believe Silas has suddenly developed an intense interest in floral schematics.
No, he’s developed an interest in the stunningly-beautiful-and-far-too-young event planner.
“Hey, G,” he calls out as he enters the space, unbothered as ever, dressed in jeans and a button-down. “Brought coffee. And actual food, in case Max has been forcing you to survive on water and spreadsheets.”
Genevieve smiles faintly. It’s the most genuine expression I’ve seen from her all day.
Silas crosses the room and offers her a pastry bag and a hot drink like a goddamn knight. Her shoulders relax. Her posture shifts.
And I feel…something.
Not jealousy. Not exactly. Just a tightness low in my chest. Because Silas falls in love every other month. Usually with women who see him as a stepping stone or a headline or a lifestyle. It never lasts.
But with Genevieve, it’s different. He’s softer with her. More careful. Like he knows this could be the one that actually breaks him.
Which would be bad enough.
Except I feel it too.
I shouldn’t. She’s young. Smart. Ambitious. She deserves someone who knows how to give. Someone who doesn’t strategize every feeling or look at affection like a risk management exercise. But even knowing all of that, I can’t stop thinking about her. Watching her. Worrying, which is not something I’m in the habit of doing.
She thanks Silas with a voice that’s a little too thin. She takes the cup, but doesn’t drink it. Her hands still tremble.
She doesn’t touch the pastries. Or the sandwich I insisted she take. Her eyes are glassy, her skin pale under the overhead lights. I know Silas can see it too. He’s somewhere across the venue now, joking with the lighting crew, but his eyes continually flick over to her.
She’s frowning in frustration over a miscalculation.
I step forward. “That’s enough.”
She startles, straightening quickly. “What?”
“You’re done for the day.”
“I’m not.” Her voice is light, overly bright. “We haven’t even finished plotting the center aisle, and the floral mock-ups still need?—”
“You need to rest,” I say, calm but firm. No edge, just fact.
She blinks. “I don’t have time to rest.”
“You do if I say you do.”
Her lips press into a tight line, but something flickers behind her eyes. It’s not indignation. Not pride. It’s fear. Worry. Exhaustion, yes, but something more.
She looks away too quickly. Bends to re-do the calculations again, like ignoring me will somehow make the conversation disappear.
I step closer. “You’re shaking.”
She tenses. Doesn’t deny it.
“This isn’t a suggestion, Genevieve. If you keep running yourself into the ground, the event won’t matter. I need you functional. I need you sharp.”
Her chin lifts at that. “I am sharp.”
“You were. Two weeks ago.” I lower my voice. “Now you’re on fumes, and everyone can see it.”
“Everyone?”
“Silas. Me. Half the vendors.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. Her grip on the tape measure tightens until her knuckles go white. She doesn’t look at me.
Her eyes finally move to me, a flicker of something unreadable in them. Then she glances at Silas, who’s watching us both now, suddenly less amused.
“You’re not a machine,” I add. “And this event will fall apart if you collapse.”
She stiffens. “I’m not going to collapse.”
“Not yet.”
For a second, I think she’s going to argue. But instead, she deflates just enough to prove I’m right.
I reach out, gently pry the tape from her hand, and set it on the table. Her fingers twitch in the absence. She looks at me again—finally—and there’s something so raw in her expression it almost knocks the breath out of me.
She’s cracking. And I don’t think she has anyone she trusts to catch her when she does.
“Go home,” I say, quieter now. “Rest. Take the night. If I see you back here before ten tomorrow, I’ll have security escort you out.”
That earns a ghost of a smile. It doesn’t last.
She nods.
Silas steps in. “I can drive her back. Make sure she actually rests.”
Of course he can. Of course he will.
I nod, but I don’t like it.
This isn’t like Elise. Elise was volatile and sharp and saw me as a challenge to break. She wanted power. And money. From me, from Sebastian, that didn’t seem to matter. Genevieve just wants peace.
And I want her in a way that makes no logical sense.
Which is a problem.
Because logic is usually the one thing I can count on.
* * *
I knock once and let myself into Silas’s place. He doesn’t lock the door when he’s expecting someone. The man’s casual disregard for basic security would infuriate me if I didn’t already know he has a security system most art galleries would envy.
And the man can take care of himself. He used to play professional football—linebacker. That position isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s all brute force and explosive motion, designed for taking hits and giving worse. His body still carries the proof.
The lights are dimmed when I step inside, which is odd. There’s something bluesy floating through the air from his sound system—a low, lazy trumpet over brushed drums. The kind of music Silas only puts on when he’s unwinding or trying to get someone else to.
I hesitate just inside the threshold. There’s no sign of him. There’s just the subtle hum of his building’s radiant heat, the faint scent of whatever overpriced candle he’s currently obsessed with, and that music.
Maybe he forgot I was coming. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he has company and he just doesn't care.
Silas has never been discreet about the women in and out of his life. He flirts, charms, disappears, and resurfaces with new names, new faces, the same smirk. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it.
But lately…
Lately, he's been orbiting Genevieve St. Claire with the kind of intensity that borders on obvious. He continually shows up to meetings he hasn’t been invited to. Drops her name into conversation. Brings her coffee and treats. Laughs louder around her. Watches her in that open, hungry way he has when he’s already half gone for someone and doesn’t care who knows it.
So, if there’s someone here now…
My chest tightens.
Not that it should. Not that I have any right.
I round the corner into the living room. And stop cold.
She’s here.
Genevieve is curled on the corner of the sectional, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting limply across her stomach. She’s out cold.
She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt—his, I realize, from the old team logo faint on the chest—and a pair of leggings. Her hair’s loose and messy, her face bare. She looks young, even younger than she is.
Soft in a way I haven’t seen before.
I don’t move. I just stand there, watching her sleep.
Silas appears from the hallway, barefoot, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Hey,” he says, voice low. He glances past me and follows my gaze. “Didn’t know if you were still coming.”
I nod once, distracted. “She okay?”
He exhales, crossing to the couch to pull a throw blanket over her legs. “Long day.”
That’s all he says. But his eyes linger on her.
“You feeding her now?” I ask. It comes out sharper than intended.
He grins, unbothered. “Somebody should.”
There’s an edge in the silence that follows.
Silas breaks it. “You can stop pretending you don’t care.”
I glance at him.
“If you want her,” he says easily, “just admit it.”
My jaw tics.
He shrugs. “Or don’t. But I know that look. Hell, I’ve worn it.”
“You’re already half in love with her.”
“More than half,” he says without hesitation. “And you? You’ve been watching her like you’re waiting for permission.”
I don’t answer.
He drops onto the opposite end of the couch, eyes never leaving me. “So maybe we stop pretending this is normal. Maybe we try something different.”
I frown. “Different how?”
Silas smiles, slow and measured. “You know how.”
Genevieve stirs in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t make out.
My attention snaps back to her.
Genevieve shifts, the smallest movement—just a sigh into the fabric of Silas’s sweatshirt, her brow twitching like she’s caught in some half-dream. Her hand curls tighter over her stomach, and I feel it again, that unfamiliar pull. Protective. Possessive. Dangerous.
I school my features into something unreadable. “She’s been through a lot.”
Silas nods slowly. “Yeah. She has.”
I glance at him. He’s not teasing now. There’s no flirtation in his tone. No smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. He looks tired. Earnest. And for once, entirely serious.
“You ever think we’re both trying to protect the same thing,” he says, voice quiet, “but from opposite sides?”
I don’t answer.
“Max,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’m not subtle. I’ve got my tells. You’ve seen them a hundred times. And I’ve seen yours.”
“She’s not a game.”
“Never said she was. But maybe that’s the point.”
My jaw tightens. I can’t look away from her. “She deserves better than this. Than us.”
“She deserves people who won’t leave when it gets complicated.” Silas tilts his head. “You’ve already started thinking about her more than you should. I’ve seen it. Hell, you’re standing in my living room, watching her sleep, trying to convince yourself you don’t feel something.”
“I don’t do relationships.”
Silas smirks, but it’s softer this time. “Yeah, well, I do too many. But this doesn’t feel like the usual crash-and-burn, does it?”
No. It doesn’t.
He leans back, gaze moving to her again. “You think I haven’t thought about what this is? What it could be? You think I don’t know the odds are stacked against all three of us?” He shrugs. “I don’t care.”
I stare at him, the words just beneath my tongue, too jagged to speak aloud.
Silas exhales. “You know what I’ve learned after years of pretending I didn’t want more? Sometimes, the safest way to love someone isn’t to control it. It’s to share it. If you want her—and I know you do—then maybe we stop pretending we’re on opposite sides of this.”
My throat feels tight. “You’re actually serious about this.”
“Completely.”
I turn that over in my mind. Let it twist. Let it settle.
“You want to share her. She’s not a toy, Silas. This isn’t?—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts in, low and sharp, more command than interruption. He softens it immediately when Genevieve stirs, one hand twitching beneath the throw blanket. “This is not about disrespect.”
I grind my jaw, but I don’t speak. Not yet.
He rises from the couch, moves toward the kitchen with that slow, deliberate gait he perfected on the field—part grace, part force. He pours a glass of water and sets it on the counter like he needs the motion to ground himself. Then he turns back to me.
“I’m not talking about using her. Or turning this into some fantasy fulfillment bullshit.” His gaze holds mine steadily. Serious. “I care about her. You do too. And maybe you don’t want to admit that yet, but I see it every time you look at her. So why does it have to be one or the other?”
I shake my head. “Because that’s not how this works.”
“Maybe not for you.” He shrugs. “But I’ve spent my whole damn life choosing women who only ever wanted a piece of me. The name. The lifestyle. The illusion. This is the first time it’s felt real, Max. She’s the first one who sees me.”
“She doesn’t even know you,” I snap with more force than I intend.
“She knows enough.” He doesn’t flinch. “And we’ve both watched her try to carry more than anyone should. Alone.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Charged.
Genevieve shifts again, her legs curling tighter beneath her. One hand clutches the hem of Silas’s sweatshirt.
I glance at her. She looks small like this. Soft. But not fragile.
“She deserves something steady,” I say quietly.
“Then be steady.”
I glance at him. “You really think this could work?”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “No. But I’ve stopped letting that be the reason I don’t try.” His voice drops as he looks toward her again. “If she chooses one of us? Fine. If she walks away? Also fine. But if she wants something different—something none of us saw coming—I’d rather be open to that.”
I don't respond.
Not because I agree.
But because a part of me already knows.
I'm not walking away from her either.
“You want to share her.”
“I want to share her.”