Page 123 of The Silver Fox Brother

The next three hours pass in a blur of client calls, vendor negotiations, and project updates. I'm going through the motions—professional, efficient, making decisions and solving problems.

At noon, my phone buzzes on my desk.

I glance down.

Incoming call: Rowan Sterling

Not an unknown number this time. His actual contact, which I never deleted.

I watch it ring. Four rings. Five. Then it goes to voicemail.

Thirty seconds later, another text.

Rowan: I know you're there. Please pick up.

I turn my phone over and get back to work.

By 2PM, I'm at the Upper West Side site doing a walk-through with the contractor. We discuss timeline, material deliveries, the custom millwork that's being fabricated. I take notes, ask questions, make adjustments to the plan.

I leave the site at three-thirty and head back to the studio.

Maya stops me as I walk through the door. "Kate called. She said you're meeting her and Amy tonight at seven. Some lounge in the Meatpacking District. She texted you the address."

I pull out my phone and see the message thread.

Kate: Reunion drinks tonight! 7 PM at The Vault. Amy's back from Cali and I'm finally recovered from my work trip. We need to catch up properly.

Amy: I'm buying the first round. You better show up.

I type back quickly.

Winter: I'll be there.

"Thanks, Maya," I say, heading into my office.

The rest of the afternoon drags. I review renderings for the Sterling Tower project—the three-bedroom unit is nearly complete, the two-bedroom is in final staging, and the penthouse needs material approvals for the master bath.

I close the file and work on something else.

By 6pm, I give up on being productive and head home to change.

***

The Vault is packed by the time I arrive at 7:15pm. The lounge is all dark wood, leather booths, and ambient lighting. Music pulses through the space—not loud enough to drown out conversation but enough to create energy.

I spot Kate and Amy at a corner booth near the bar.

"Finally!" Kate stands and pulls me into a hug.

"We thought you bailed."

"Traffic," I lie, sliding into the booth across from them.

Amy pushes a martini toward me.

"Dirty martini, extra olives. Just how you like it."

"You're a saint." I take a long drink and feel the vodka burn pleasantly down my throat.