29. Max
Chapter 29
Max
T he spreadsheet on my monitor blurs as I rub a hand across the back of my neck, forcing myself to refocus. End-of-quarter reports demand precision, not distraction, but my mind isn’t cooperating. It keeps dragging back to Genevieve.
I wanted to throttle Sebastian, dismantle him from top to bottom. And that fucking event planner…watching Gen shut down like that was painful. I hate that I can’t fix this for her. I hate that she’s in this situation at all. I thought Sebastian was a better man than this.
I’m halfway through recalibrating a profit margin formula when the sound of my office door swinging open without a knock jerks me out of the numbers.
"Mr. Thorne, I'm so sorry—" my assistant stammers from the hallway.
I don’t need her apology. I already know who it is.
Only one person has ever disregarded protocol in my office without hesitation.
"Naomi," I say, leaning back in my chair, steeling myself.
She steps inside, heels clicking against the floor. Her blonde hair is swept back into a sleek chignon, and her tailored navy dress is as sharp as the glare she levels at me. Naomi King is a force of nature—always has been—and if she’s here uninvited, it means she’s got something important to discuss.
From the look in her eyes, I’m guessing that something is me.
The door clicks shut behind her, cutting off my assistant’s nervous apologies.
I let the silence stretch, waiting her out. Naomi thrives on confrontation, but she doesn’t enjoy being forced to start the conversation. It irritates her.
Good.
Maybe it’ll slow her down.
"You’re a hard man to get a hold of these days," she says finally, her voice icy.
"Busy quarter," I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
She arches a brow. "Busy playing house, from what I hear."
My jaw tightens instinctively, but I don’t rise to the bait. Not yet. Naomi’s information is never casual. If she’s bringing up Genevieve, it’s because she’s already decided she doesn’t approve.
She moves further into the room, bypassing the chair across from my desk to perch on the edge instead, crossing her legs neatly at the ankle. A calculated move. Casual but dominant. She’s framing herself in my line of sight, daring me to ignore her.
"I've heard things," she says lightly, inspecting her manicure. "Rumors. Whispers."
"Rumors," I repeat, noncommittal.
"About you. And Silas. And some...child," she says, the disdain in her voice as subtle as an elephant.
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on the desk. "Careful," I say, voice low. "You’re two seconds from pissing me off."
Naomi smiles, all fake polished grace. "I'm concerned, Max. You’re a public figure. You’ve spent a decade building something impeccable. Now there’s talk of you and Silas sharing a girl young enough to be your intern. It’s beneath you.”
The words slice clean through the controlled calm I’ve been holding onto. I feel the anger rise in my chest.
Genevieve isn’t a rumor.
She’s not some strategic mistake.
She’s the first real thing I've let myself reach for in years.
And Naomi, for all her brilliance, doesn’t get to reduce her to a headline.
"You don’t know her," I say. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"I don’t need to," Naomi replies coolly. "I know the world we live in. And I know the second this gets out, the vultures will circle. They won’t just tear into her—they’ll tear into you and this company, into every charitable function Silas has lined up. They'll drag that girl through the mud and back again. And for what? A fling?"
The word lands wrong. Too shallow. Too cruel.
"It’s not a fling," I say, voice steady but colder than I intended.
Naomi’s gaze sharpens. She wasn’t expecting me to defend it. To defend Genevieve.
For a moment, real concern flickers behind her eyes.
"Then you need to prove it," she says. "To me. To the public. To everyone who matters."
I stare at her, weighing the demand. Naomi isn’t asking for herself. She’s asking because she knows the rules of our world, the way public image can make or destroy fortunes. She thinks she’s protecting me. In her mind, this is an intervention.
But I would burn this world down to keep Genevieve. I don’t care about public opinion. I care about her.
"Tonight," she adds, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. "Dinner. You, Silas, the girl. Eight o’clock at my home."
It’s not a request. And I cannot refuse.
I exhale slowly through my nose, keeping my face blank. Agreeing to this feels wrong—exposing Gen to Naomi’s scrutiny when she’s already bruised from everything with Sebastian. But if I refuse, Naomi will only push harder. I know my sister well…
Better to control the narrative before someone else writes it.
"Fine," I say, standing and reaching for my phone. "But after tonight, you stay out of it."
Naomi rises as well, smoothing her skirt with a satisfied little smile. "If she’s worthy of you, Max, I’ll be the first to admit it."
The lie is so smooth it almost sounds sincere.
Almost.
I wait until the door clicks shut behind her before allowing myself a reaction. My shoulders sag slightly under the weight of what I’ve just agreed to.
This is a test.
And Naomi never rigs a test in anyone’s favor but her own.
I text a message to Gen and Silas, my fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before I type:
Change of plans.
Dinner with my sister and her family. 8 p.m.
I’m sorry. I’ll make it as painless as possible.
I promise.
Gen texts back almost immediately.
Of course. We’ll be there.
Five words. No hesitation. No questions.
She wants to make a good impression. She wants to belong here, in this world—my world. Unfortunately, she has no idea what Naomi is capable of when she’s on the war path.
I drag a hand through my hair, staring at the message for a long moment before pocketing the phone. I tell myself she’s tougher than she looks. That she’ll be fine. That Silas and I will keep her safe between us.
But Naomi scares me. And I’m man enough to admit it.
* * *
White stone, manicured hedges, towering windows, all blazing with golden light. Everything about my sister’s home is calculated to impress and intimidate.
Gen shifts beside me in the car, her hands smoothing over the fabric of her dress.
She looks beautiful—simple, understated elegance—but I can feel the nerves vibrating through her. I reach over, covering her hand with mine, squeezing once. She squeezes back.
Silas leans over, keeping his voice pitched low. "You’re perfect. Don’t let her get in your head."
Gen offers a tight smile, but I see the doubt in her eyes.
I want to tell her we can turn around. That none of this matters. That Naomi’s opinion means nothing compared to what Silas and I already know—that she belongs with us. But it’s too late. The driver is already pulling to a stop in front of the sweeping staircase.
There’s no turning back now.
Naomi swings open the door before we even reach it. She’s dressed for battle in black, the color of judgment. Her eyes sweep over us in a single, clinical glance, and I watch the calculation flicker through them. She doesn’t smile.
"Welcome," she says, stepping aside to let us in.
The house smells faintly of fresh flowers. The floors gleam under the light from the chandeliers. Staff members move discreetly in the background, ensuring everything is perfect.
"You must be Genevieve," Naomi says once we reach the living room. Her tone is cool but not outright hostile. Yet.
Gen offers a polite smile and extends her hand. "It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.
"Funny, I’ve heard nothing about you.” Naomi takes Gen’s hand briefly before releasing it as if touching it any longer might contaminate her. The entire exchange lasts less than two seconds, but it tells me everything I need to know.
This is going to be a fucking disaster.
Robert King, Naomi’s husband enters from another room. He’s tall and spare, with a narrow frame and a perfectly tailored suit. He briefly shakes Gen’s hand. A nod to Silas. A tighter one to me. No words beyond what’s absolutely necessary.
It’s clear he’s here to play referee, not participant.
"Shall we?" Naomi says, already turning on her heel to lead us toward the dining room.
The table is set formally—polished silverware, starched linen napkins, the kind of place settings that are far too formal for family.
Gen sits between Silas and me, her posture perfect, her hands folded in her lap, every inch of her radiating restraint. I hate this.
Naomi pours herself a glass of wine, ignoring the server standing discreetly nearby to do it for her. Power move. Everything tonight is going to be a power move.
“I’d offer you a glass, but I’m not sure you’re old enough to drink.”
“Twenty-four is plenty old enough, Naomi. You’re being petty and it doesn’t suit you,” Silas tells her flatly.
Gen looks shell-shocked. I obviously didn’t prepare her for this because I really hoped this wouldn’t happen.
Once we’re all seated, Naomi folds her hands neatly on the table and smiles—an expression so devoid of real warmth it could chill a room by ten degrees.
"So," she says, her tone light but razor-sharp, "tell me, Genevieve. How exactly did you meet my brother?"
Gen hesitates just a fraction of a second. Then: “We met through Sebastian Wolfe. He hired me as the event planner for his Elysian Cove launch.”
At the mention of his name, Naomi’s smile thins even further. "Sebastian," she repeats, drawing out the word. "Of course he did."
Robert clears his throat softly, the sound deliberate. Naomi waves him off with a small flick of her hand.
"And from professional admiration, what? Things escalated?" she asks, voice syrupy.
Gen holds her gaze, not backing down. "We got to know each other. Things happened naturally."
"And now you’re here," Naomi muses, picking up her wine glass. "Entwined with two men old enough to know better."
Gen flinches.
I clench my jaw so hard my molars grind together.
Gen straightens in her seat, her chin lifting. "What’s your real question, Naomi?"
Naomi’s eyes glitter, pleased. She sets her wine glass down with a deliberate clink. "My real question is simple: what do you want?"
It’s not asked in curiosity. It’s an accusation.
Gen doesn't answer immediately. She exhales slowly through her nose, a tiny, measured sound, and when she speaks, her voice is clear.
"I want what anyone would want," she says. "Respect. Stability. A place to build a life."
Naomi’s fake smile returns. "How noble."
The first course arrives—something pretentious and French—but no one reaches for their utensils. The tension sits heavy between us, more fragrant than the scent of the food wafting from the plates.
Gen finally picks up her fork, forcing a small, polite bite. Silas mirrors her a second later, probably more to keep up appearances than out of any real appetite.
Robert clears his throat again, more pointed this time. "Naomi," he says quietly, a warning.
She ignores him.
"So, tell me," Naomi says, spearing a piece of asparagus, "how does one manage the...logistics of a situation like yours?"
Genevieve blinks. "Logistics?"
"Yes. Two men. One woman. Doesn't it get...complicated?"
The implication hangs there. It’s vulgar, poisoning the air. Silas is right, she’s being petty, and I won’t keep my mouth shut much longer.
It takes everything I have not to lay into Naomi across the polished mahogany.
Gen clears her throat delicately, reclaiming the conversation. "What Silas and Max and I have is our business."
Naomi smiles like a shark. "Of course it is."
She dabs her mouth with her napkin, the motion slow and exaggerated.
"And what about the child?" she asks as if she’s inquiring about the weather. "Will it be raised by committee?"
Gen freezes. The blood drains from her face.
“Surely my brother had to know that I can read between the lines," Naomi continues, cutting into her filet with delicate precision.
Gen sets her fork down slowly, her fingers trembling. Silas’s entire frame has gone rigid beside her.
I push my chair back slightly, the movement a warning shot across the table.
Robert clears his throat again, louder this time. Naomi doesn’t acknowledge it. Her focus is locked on Gen.
"You're young…very young actually," Naomi says lightly, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. "Beautiful. Ambitious. It would be easy to...misconstrue your intentions."
Gen inhales slowly, her face smoothing into a mask of composure. "I’m not here for anyone’s money," she says. "I’m not here for status. I didn’t plan this. The baby isn’t even theirs. Sebastian?—"
She cuts herself off, but the damage is already done.
The mention of his name slices the air between us. Naomi’s expression shifts subtly, the faint lines around her mouth hardening. She leans back in her chair with an unreadable look, her hands folding neatly in her lap, her entire body radiating silent judgment.
Gen’s shoulders stiffen. Her hand tightens around her napkin before she places it on the table in front of her.
“Please excuse me,” she says, voice clipped but polite.
She stands, smoothing her dress with shaking hands, her composure only fracturing if you know her well enough to see it. I’m already pushing my chair back, Silas a half second behind me, both of us moving instinctively to follow her.
She doesn’t even look at us. Just lifts one hand and gives a small, decisive shake of her head.
Stay.
Her message is clear, but she looks like she’s about to lose it. I can see that in the slight tremble of her fingers, the set of her jaw. She walks out of the dining room without another word, her heels whispering against the marble as she disappears down the hall.
The second she’s out of sight, the tension at the table snaps taut enough to choke on.
Naomi watches her leave with a small, satisfied tilt to her mouth. She dabs her lips with her napkin—dainty, controlled—then tosses it onto the table with a soft, dismissive flick of her wrist.
"I should speak with the kitchen staff," she says, her voice casual, as if she hadn’t just gutted a woman at her own dinner table.
Robert shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze lingering on the door Gen disappeared through. There’s a weight in his eyes, a quiet apology he doesn’t voice. He’s smart enough to know it wouldn’t matter even if he did. Besides, his wife would gut him just as harshly if he spoke out against her.
Silas leans back in his chair, his hands fisting and unfisting against his thighs. His jaw is clenched tightly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough.
"Well," he mutters, a humorless edge slicing through the word. "This is going well."
I run a hand down my face, dragging my palm across my mouth to keep from saying something I’ll regret. My temper is a live wire under my skin, fraying with every second Gen stays away from this table, alone, hurting because we asked her to be here.
Because I asked.
"Give her a minute," I say quietly, mostly for myself.
Silas mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously close to fuck that , but he doesn’t move either. He exhales sharply through his nose, his hand tapping a restless rhythm against the table’s edge.
She’s taking longer than I thought she would. I imagine her falling apart in the powder room and my heart races. What the fuck have I done?