35. Gen
Chapter 35
Gen
M ax doesn’t tell me where we’re going. He just wakes me with a soft kiss and a says, "Come on, baby. Just us today."
I hesitate for a heartbeat, glancing toward the other side of the bed where Silas is still sleeping. His arm is slung carelessly across my pillow, his hair a mess across his forehead. For a second, I think about burrowing back under the covers, tucking myself against his warmth and pretending the outside world doesn’t exist.
Max sees the thought cross my face. He leans down again, his mouth brushing over my temple in a way that makes me shiver. "Don’t even think about it," he says, voice still rough with sleep but threaded with amusement. "Silas knows. He’s the one who said you needed it."
I squint up at him. "Needed what, exactly?"
Max just grins, infuriatingly smug. "Come on, sweetheart. Trust me."
I grumble under my breath but push back the blankets anyway, feeling instantly exposed to the cool morning air. Max is already moving toward the dresser, tossing me a clean pair of leggings and one of his sweatshirts with a casual flick of his wrist.
I love that they don’t expect me to be some designer princess just because their status would normally demand it. I spent my entire life adhering to my parents’ expectations, expectations that included dressing a certain way. Right now, all I care about is comfort. Growing a human is uncomfortable as fuck. I deserve to wear whatever I want.
"Get dressed," he says, his smile widening. "And no questions."
I narrow my eyes at him as I pull the shirt over my head. "You’re enjoying this way too much."
"Of course I am," he says without an ounce of shame. "You’re adorable when you’re bossy and half-awake."
I mutter something about insufferable men under my breath, but the truth is, my heart is already lighter than it’s been in days. Max has that effect on me. He doesn’t ask me to pretend everything’s okay. He doesn’t push when I’m not ready. He just...shows up. Again and again.
By the time I’m fully dressed, hair pulled into a quick braid, Max is already waiting by the door, keys in hand, his other hand extended toward me.
I slip my fingers into his without thinking, letting him tug me gently into the hall.
He doesn’t tell me where we’re going, doesn't give me any clues beyond a maddeningly smug look and a casual, "You’ll see."
I roll my eyes but follow him down the stairs, half-expecting him to spill the plan once we reach the car.
He doesn't, damn him.
We end up at a small brunch spot tucked away in the quieter part of the city, the kind of place with cracked leather booths and real cloth napkins, where the waitstaff knows most of the regulars by name. Max orders for us both—blueberry pancakes for me, eggs and bacon for him—and I don't argue. He knows my cravings almost better than I do.
We talk about nothing important—the renovations Silas is doing at the loft, a new project I’m working on, a weird new mushroom tea Evie convinced me to try that almost made me throw up. I laugh, a real, unguarded laugh that feels foreign.
Max watches me over his coffee cup, his gaze soft. "Missed that sound," he says quietly.
I blink rapidly, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice. It would be so easy to drown in it, to let all the fear and uncertainty slip away for a little while.
After we eat, Max nudges me toward the car without telling me where we’re headed next. I narrow my eyes at him as we drive, but he only shrugs, keeping one hand relaxed on the steering wheel, the other reaching across to toy absently with my fingers.
When he finally pulls into a parking lot, it takes me a second to process what I’m seeing.
It’s a baby boutique.
"Max..." I say, my voice wavering slightly.
He puts the car in park, then turns to face me. "Just to look," he says. "No pressure. No decisions today. Just...let's see what they have. You’re in your second trimester. It’s time to start making some decisions, okay?”
I don't trust myself to speak, so I just nod.
The store is absurdly charming, all soft pastels and tiny, perfect things. Max doesn't rush me. He holds my hand as we move slowly through the aisles. We linger over cribs and car seats and impossibly small socks. Max pauses at a display of onesies and pulls out one with a printed crown on the front that says, "Born to Rule."
"Seems appropriate."
I snort, the sound escaping before I can catch it. "Arrogant much?"
He just winks and drapes it over his arm, as if buying it is a foregone conclusion.
Somewhere between the shelves of ridiculously soft blankets and tiny knitted hats, the fear that’s been coiling tight inside my chest begins to loosen. This is happening. This is real. It doesn't feel impossible anymore.
It feels...manageable. Maybe even a little bit wonderful.
Max tugs me down another aisle, one lined with tiny shoes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to rush the moment. He just lets me feel it—this small, fragile happiness blooming inside me.
When we stop in front of a display of impossibly tiny boots, he turns, cupping my chin between his fingers. There’s nothing casual about the way his gaze locks onto mine.
"I love you," he says simply.
I blink up at him, my heart tripping over itself. For a second, I can’t breathe. The world tilts, not in the terrifying, overwhelming way it has so often lately—but in the way it does when something shifts inside you permanently.
My throat tightens painfully. "Max?—"
"You don’t have to say it back," he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip. "I don’t need anything from you. I just needed you to know."
I press my forehead against his chest, breathing him in. The familiar scent of his cologne, the steady beat of his heart, the solid strength of him—all of it wraps around me and holds me together.
"I do," I whisper against his shirt. "I love you, too."
When we finally pull apart, Max clears his throat and nudges me toward another display—this one full of baby carriers and diaper bags and endless practical things I hadn’t even begun to think about yet.
"Come on, baby," he says, squeezing my hand. "We’ve got a lot of decisions to make."
* * *
I should have known the happy little bubble wouldn’t last. As we’re leaving the store, arms full of shopping bags, I hear a sound that makes my stomach lurch.
"Genevieve Elise St. Claire."
I stop mid-step. Max turns with me, his posture going rigid at my side. I already know what I’ll see before I lift my head.
My mother stands a few feet away, dressed impeccably in a cream wool coat, her hair swept up in a chignon so tight it looks painful. She holds a small, tasteful shopping bag in one hand and judgment in the other. Her mouth is pressed into a thin, disapproving line, her eyes raking over me, over Max, over the bags we’re carrying. Her gaze snags on the logo of the baby boutique, and there’s a beat of silence so thick it presses down on my chest.
"Shopping for a gift?" she asks, her tone deceptively pleasant.
Max shifts closer to me, his hand brushing the small of my back in silent support.
I straighten my posture. "No. It’s for me."
For a second, she doesn’t react. Then something flickers across her face—disbelief, horror, maybe both. She glances down at my stomach, then back up at me, as if trying to solve a math equation she never thought she’d have to work through.
"You’re pregnant," she says, not a question. A condemnation.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to hold her gaze. "Yes."
"And he’s—?" She flicks her hand toward Max dismissively.
I tighten my grip on the shopping bags, the plastic biting into my palm. "Mother, this is Max Thorne.”
Max says hello and holds out his hand. My mother shakes it daintily.
“The baby isn’t Max’s. Or Silas’s."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Silas Whitmore?" she repeats, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You’re involved with both of them?"
Max’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t speak. He lets me handle it, the way we agreed, the way I need to.
I nod once. “Yes.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again, at a rare loss for words. I can see the calculations happening behind her eyes—what this means for the family, for her reputation, for the carefully curated image she’s spent her entire life constructing.
"You stupid, selfish girl," she finally hisses, her voice low enough that it doesn’t draw attention, but vicious enough to leave no doubt about the intent behind it. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You’ve humiliated us. You’ve humiliated yourself."
I blink, stunned by the sheer venom in her tone. Not surprised—never surprised—but still, somehow, cut by it.
I lift my chin, willing the tremor in my hands to still. "I’m not ashamed of my life. Or who I love."
Her nostrils flare. "You don’t love them. You’re desperate. Desperate for attention. For validation. Is that what this is about? You couldn’t find a respectable husband, so you threw yourself at the first men stupid enough to pity you?"
The words hit harder than any slap. I feel the blood drain from my face, the familiar rush of humiliation clawing its way up my throat. But I don’t break. I won’t give her that satisfaction.
"You don’t know anything about me," I say, my voice steady even though my heart is threatening to pound its way out of my chest. "You never have."
Her eyes narrow. "I know you’re throwing your life away. On a bastard child that doesn’t even have a real father. On two men who will tire of you the second the novelty wears off."
"Enough," Max growls.
She ignores him completely, her attention fixed on me with laser precision. "You always were a disappointment. At least now you’ve made it official."
I swallow hard against the burn in my throat. "I’d rather be a disappointment on my own terms than your perfect puppet."
Her lips curl in disgust. "Don’t come crawling back when it all falls apart."
I hold her gaze, refusing to flinch. "I won’t."
For a beat, we stand there, the distance between us wider than it’s ever been, the chasm carved so deep there’s no bridging it now.
* * *
I’m surprised when Max pulls up outside my building. He presses a kiss to my forehead when we pull up to the curb. He doesn’t say much, just holds my hand for a second longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over my knuckles before he lets go.
"I’ll call you later," he says, voice low.
I nod, offering a small smile as I climb out of the car. I half expect him to follow, but he doesn’t.
It feels strange being left alone after everything. But there’s also something intentional about it. So, I’m not quite as surprised as I should be when I exit the elevator on my floor and find Sebastian waiting for me.
He’s standing outside my door, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his hair mussed in a way that suggests he’s raked his hands through it a dozen times in the last hour. He looks so out of place in my modest hallway.
"Hi," I manage.
He straightens at the sound, stepping forward but stopping himself a breath away. "Can we talk?" he asks, and there’s something ragged in the way he says it, something that punches straight through my walls.
I nod, too stunned to trust my voice. I’m bracing myself for the worst.
"I’m done running," he says quietly. "Done pretending I don’t want this. That I don’t want you. You asked for space and I gave it to you, but I want more, Genevieve. Please, sweetheart."
I grip the bags in my hand to steady myself.
"I’m in," he continues, every word measured, deliberate. "If you’ll have me. I want you. The baby. All of it."
“And Max and Silas?”
“Are part of this now. I understand that. I would never ask you to choose.”
The tears prickling behind my eyes threaten to spill over, but I swallow them back. I’m so tired of crying.
So, I do the only thing that makes sense.
I step toward him.
Sebastian meets me halfway, his hand closing around the nape of my neck, his thumb brushing the underside of my jaw as he tilts my head back to look at him.
"Say something," he murmurs.
Instead, I rise onto my toes and press my mouth to his.
His mouth crashes into mine, one hand threading into my hair. I gasp, but it’s swallowed by his kiss. He walks me backward blindly, not caring where we’re going, just needing more contact, more skin. It’s a collision of too many emotions and not enough time.
Sebastian growls low in his throat, his arms snapping tight around me. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me through the apartment, his mouth never leaving mine for long. The second we hit the bedroom, he sets me down on the bed and stands back, yanking his shirt over his head with one sharp movement. My mouth goes dry at the sight. His belt drops with a metallic clink.
I shift on the bed, thighs pressing together, every nerve ending firing at once.
"Spread your legs, sweetheart," he orders.
My body obeys before my brain catches up, my legs falling open, my dress bunched high on my hips. Sebastian watches me for a long, agonizing moment, his chest rising and falling harder now. Controlled, but barely.
"You’ve been mine since the first fucking kiss," he says.
His mouth trails over my throat, my collarbone, the heavy curve of my breasts, before he pulls back just enough to stare down at me.
"Mine," he says, voice rough.
His hands are everywhere—mapping, claiming, coaxing every gasp and whimper from my body until I’m writhing beneath him. He pushes my thighs apart, his fingers finding my clit and circling it until I’m arching off the mattress. His mouth follows, licking a slow, torturous path up my body.
“Tell me to stop,” he growls into my neck, breath scalding.
I shake my head before I can even think.
“That’s what I thought.”
In one rough motion, he tears my panties down my legs and tosses them aside. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider, and then he’s kneeling between them, dragging the blunt head of his cock through my slick folds, just barely brushing my clit.
I gasp, hips jerking.
He smirks. "Already so wet for me."
I whimper.
"Stay still," he commands, his breath hot against my ear. He fists himself once, lining up—and then he pushes in.
I clutch at the sheets, trying to adjust, but Sebastian doesn’t give me time. He buries himself to the hilt with one punishing thrust, groaning low in his throat when he’s fully inside me.
“Fuck, baby. I missed you,” he rasps.
He stays still for a heartbeat, letting me feel every inch of him, every thick, aching pulse. Then he pulls out almost all the way and drives back in, making me cry out.
"That's it," he grits out. "Take it."
I do. I take everything he gives me, every relentless thrust, every filthy word murmured against my ear.
“You feel that?” he growls, driving in even deeper. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”
I nod frantically, lost to the pleasure ripping through me.
He shifts, angling his hips until he hits that spot. I shatter, clenching down around him so hard he curses under his breath. My orgasm tears through me, but he doesn’t stop.
He rides me through it, fucking me until I’m gasping and begging without shame.
"Another one," he demands. "Give me another."
I can’t think. I can only feel—the heavy press of his body, the sound of our skin slapping together, the desperate way he thrusts deeper.
He releases my wrists and grabs my hips instead, hauling me up to meet every stroke.
“Goddamn it, Genevieve,” he grits out. “I’m going to wreck you.”
And he does.
He fucks me until tears leak from the corners of my eyes, until my body bows tight and my second orgasm rips free, even more violent than the first. I scream his name, my nails clawing at his back.
That’s what finally breaks him.
With a hoarse shout, Sebastian comes, his entire body going rigid above me.
He doesn’t pull out immediately. He stays there, breathing hard, still buried so deep I can feel every aftershock.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are pure fire.
"Mine," he says again, rough and sure.
I don’t argue. I want so desperately for it to be true.