Epilogue | Gen
T hirty weeks.
I smooth my hand over the curve of my stomach, feeling the tiny flutter of movement just beneath the surface. It’s stronger now. Every day my little nugget makes themself more known, and every day the reality roots itself deeper in my chest.
I’m going to be a mother.
The ultrasound tech smiles warmly as she adjusts the wand, angling it for a better view. "Let's see if someone feels like cooperating today."
I hold my breath, irrationally nervous.
The last two appointments had been exercises in stubbornness—crossed legs, turned back, absolute refusal to reveal anything. The nugget’s first act of rebellion.
Max had declared it proof that they had my spirit.
Today, though, the image on the screen sharpens.
"There’s your baby," the tech says, tilting the monitor toward me. "And…congratulations. It's a girl."
A girl.
The words echo through my head, ricocheting off every wall, every deeply hidden hope I hadn’t dared give voice to.
A girl.
I don’t realize I’m crying until Sebastian’s hand slides wipes my tears away.
Max leans in from the other side, his smile so wide it borders on ridiculous, his eyes glassy.
Silas presses a kiss to the crown of my head, whispering against my hair. “She’s going to be just like her momma. Brilliant and beautiful.”
A girl.
I stare at the monitor, at the tiny curve of her spine, the delicate flutter of her heartbeat, the way she kicks and squirms with a stubborn determination.
Ours.
I brush a hand over my belly, feeling the press of her from the inside, the weight of her.
She’s real. She’s ours.
And she’s perfect.
The tech prints out a new set of photos, handing them to me with a smile. I clutch them carefully in both hands, afraid that if I hold them too tightly, I’ll crush them. I’m also afraid that if I don’t hold on tightly enough, they’ll disappear.
Sebastian doesn’t speak. He just leans closer, pressing his forehead lightly against the side of my head for a moment, a rare crack in his usual unshakable armor.
As we walk out of the building into the late afternoon sun, I catch sight of our reflection in the glass doors—me in the center, flanked on either side by men who would set fire to the world to protect what we’re building.
The image sticks with me.
It’s not traditional.
But it’s mine.
And it’s everything.
* * *
I pause just beyond the doorway, one hand braced on the wall for balance, the other resting automatically on my stomach, where the baby stirs with a restless kick.
“She’s going to curse you later if you name her something she’ll have to spell out for the rest of her life,” Max is saying, his voice dry.
I huff a small laugh before I can stop myself, the sound catching their attention instantly. Shoot—I was hoping to continue eavesdropping on their conversation.
Three heads swivel toward me.
I ease into the room with all the grace I can manage these days, which is to say, very little. I just had the most amazing mid-day nap and I’m still a little groggy.
Max crosses the distance in two strides, looping an arm around my waist before I can get too far.
Sebastian moves in on my other side, tilting my chin up with two fingers to press a kiss to my forehead. “We’re brainstorming baby girl names.”
Silas leans his elbows on the counter, flashing me a wicked smile. “Democracy at work. But it’s not going well.”
I arch an eyebrow. “And who’s leading the pack?”
“All of us,” Max says solemnly.
“At each other’s throats,” Silas amends, grabbing a strawberry from the bowl on the counter and popping it into his mouth. “It’s brutal.”
I let them pull me deeper into the room, into the circle of their warmth.
“Alright. So which names are the front runners at this point?”
Silas ticks them off. “Sebastian wants Octavia or Calista. Max prefers Selene or Vivienne, spelled with two v’s, two e’s and two n’s. The poor kid is going to be ten before she can spell her own name with that one though.”
“He’s got a good point there,” I say, glancing at Max who is pretending to be very offended.
“And I want Marigold or Jasmine,” Silas continues. “For some reason, I feel like she needs to be named after a flower.”
That cracks me up and my laughter causes our daughter to kick, a sharp little jab that makes me gasp.
Immediately, all three of them freeze.
Sebastian drops to one knee without hesitation, pressing his palm carefully against the spot where she kicked again.
“She’s feisty,” Max says, wonder threading through his voice.
Sebastian says nothing. He just stays there, kneeling in front of me, his hand splayed wide, his head bowed.
The room spins for a second—not from dizziness, but from the sheer weight of the moment. I brace myself against them, feeling their hands, their bodies, their steady presence anchoring me.
I don't have to ask if they love her. I see it in the way they touch me. I hear it in the way they speak to her, murmuring low promises against my skin when they think I’m not listening.
This isn’t the life I was raised to want.
It isn’t the pristine country clubs and strategic relationships and polished, empty parties.
It’s messy and loud and chaotic.
And mine.
* * *
If you loved Filthy Rich Silver Foxes, you will also love the first book in this series, Filthy Rich Bosses . Turn the page if you want a preview…