Page 22 of The Silver Fox Brother

They exchange a glance, that wordless communication of couples who've been together long enough to read each other.

"We're very pleased," Mrs. Chen says.

"This is exactly why we hired you."

After they leave, Maya appears with a bottle of sparkling water and a knowing smile.

"Another satisfied client. You're on fire lately."

"Just doing what I love."

"Three and a half million dollars' worth of what you love." She hands me the water.

"AD is still waiting for your call, by the way."

Right. Architectural Digest.

I make the call, spend twenty minutes discussing the West Village project with their editorial team, agree to a photographer coming to shoot the space next month. When I hang up, Maya is grinning.

"November issue. Cover potential, they said."

"They saidmaybecover potential," I reply correcting her statement.

"Still counts."

It does count.Five years ago, I was sleeping on Amy's couch and taking design jobs that paid in exposure. Now I’m on a phone call with Architectural Digest and other publications.

I built this. Every bit of it. No family connections, no inherited wealth, just work and vision and refusing to quit when it got hard.

My phone buzzes again. I glance down, expecting Rowan. It's Kate.

Kate: How's Monday treating you?

Winter: Busy. Good busy. Chen meeting went great.

Kate: Told you. You're brilliant at what you do.

Winter: Thanks. Dinner with Rowan tonight.

Kate: You okay with that?

Am I?

Winter: I'm fine. Just dinner.

Kate: Call me after if you need to.

Winter: I will.

I set my phone down and get back into my rhythm. The afternoon passes in a blur of productivity. The Williamsburg clients love the schematic designs. The fabric samples arrive and they're perfect—exactly the texture and weight I specified. I approve invoices, review timelines, spend an hour on the phone with a stone supplier negotiating better pricing for the Chen project.

By six-thirty, the studio is quiet again. My team has left for the day. Maya shut down her station at six, reminding me about tomorrow's schedule before heading out. I'm alone with my laptop, reviewing material specifications for the tenth time because I can't quite make myself leave.

My phone alarm goes off—seven o'clock. If I'm meeting Rowan at eight, I need to leave now. I shut down my laptop, grab my bag, take one last look around the studio. Tomorrow I'll be back here, in the space where I know exactly who I am. I lock the door behind me and step into the humid summer evening, heading toward the subway that will take me home.

The Sterling Building occupies a prime corner of Gramercy Park, one of those pre-war structures that was guttedand renovated into luxury condominiums about a decade ago. Rowan's family owns it—one of Conrad Sterling's first major residential developments in Manhattan, the one that proved Sterling Commercial could compete in the high-end market. The ground level is all gleaming storefronts: a gourmet grocery that stocks imported olive oil and fresh truffles, a FedEx for the residents who can't be bothered with post offices, a spa that offers four-hundred-dollar facials and sound bath therapy.

There's a doorman who knows everyone by name, a concierge desk that can procure anything from theater tickets to a private jet, and a residents-only gym on the second floor with equipment that looks like it belongs in a spaceship.