36. Gen
Chapter 36
Gen
I knew it was only a matter of time.
A relationship this unconventional—with men this powerful—was never going to go unnoticed. I told myself I was prepared for the fallout.
But nothing could have prepared me for this.
The second the headlines broke, it felt as though the ground shifted beneath my feet—subtle at first, then all at once, until I could hardly catch my breath.
They’re everywhere.
Billionaire Tragedy: Three Titans, One Gold Digger.
Young, Dumb, and Pregnant: How One Girl Snared New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors.
St. Claire Scandal: The Embarrassment of High Society’s Favorite Daughter.
Who's the Daddy? Inside the Billionaire Baby Bombshell.
Each article is worse than the last. Speculation, accusations, carefully chosen words meant to gouge deep enough that even truth won’t stop the bleeding.
There are pictures, too. Some professional, most grainy and invasive. Shots of Max with and me holding hands. Silas opening a car door for me. Sebastian leaning down to speak to me during some fundraiser, his mouth close to my ear.
In every picture, I’m the focal point.
I shut the laptop with more force than necessary and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. It doesn’t stop the pounding behind them. It doesn’t make any of this less real.
I should have seen it coming. After everything with Naomi, after Heather, after my mother’s thinly veiled threats, it was foolish to think we could exist quietly. That we could build something real without the world trying to tear it apart.
And now...
Now, it isn’t safe.
I can’t walk to the coffee shop without wearing a hat and hiding behind oversized sunglasses. I can’t go to the grocery store without people staring. I can’t even take a walk down the damn street.
Silas was the one who suggested it first.
"You can’t stay at your place anymore, G," he said, low and grim, after another run-in with paparazzi camped outside the lobby.
I wanted to argue. I wanted to cling to the independence I’d worked so damn hard to carve out for myself. But the truth was, the moment I stepped outside, I wasn’t putting just myself at risk anymore.
I pressed a hand protectively over my stomach, already starting to round beneath my loose sweaters, and nodded.
Silas’s loft was the logical choice. It’s secure, private, and most importantly, he works from home enough to keep an eye on me. Max and Sebastian both offered to take shifts too, but...I didn’t want to be shuffled around. I need consistency. Stability.
So, I packed a bag with the essentials. A few changes of clothes. My laptop. The ultrasound photo tucked carefully between the pages of my planner.
I locked the door behind me with trembling fingers and didn’t look back.
Now, sitting cross-legged on Silas’s massive sectional, I try to calm the endless spinning of my thoughts.
Silas is somewhere in the kitchen, muttering to himself about something he burned. I hear the clatter of a pan and the quiet, creative swearing that follows. A tiny smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
My phone buzzes across the coffee table, vibrating against the wood with an insistence that sets my teeth on edge. I already know who it is before I look.
Mother.
For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. But that’s not who I am, even if I want it to be.
I answer.
“Genevieve,” she says, her voice tight, as if just saying my name is an effort. “I assume you’re aware of the...circus you’ve created.”
I close my eyes briefly, inhaling through my nose. "Yes."
"You need to fix this," she snaps. "Immediately."
My throat tightens, but I manage to keep my tone even. "Fix what, exactly?"
"This embarrassment. This disgrace." Her voice sharpens. "It’s one thing to entangle yourself with one of them—though even that would have been a stretch. But three? And now you’re pregnant?"
I stare at the far wall, willing myself not to react, not to let her see the wound she’s tearing open.
"You are a St. Claire," she hisses. "You were raised better than this."
A beat of silence stretches between us. I could remind her that her absence taught me far more about loneliness than it ever did about decorum. But what would be the point?
"You’re ruining your future. Our family’s name. Marrying one of them would have been salvageable. Marrying three?—"
"I’m not marrying anyone," I cut in, my voice low.
The silence on the other end is deafening.
"This isn’t about you," I say, quieter now. "It never was."
I hang up before she can respond.
My hands are shaking again, but this time, it’s not fear. It’s fury. And something else, too.
Freedom.