Page 5 of The Silver Fox Brother

"You look beautiful," he says, stepping away from his conversation. His hand finds the small of my back, proprietary. He leans in, kisses my cheek—a performance for whoever's watching.

"My mother was right about that color."

Notyou chose well.Notyou look stunning.My mother was right.

I smile anyway. "She has excellent taste."

"That she does." His hand stays on my back, guiding me toward the French doors.

"Ready?"

I want to ask what I'm supposed to be ready for, but I know. Ready to smile. Ready to make small talk with people whose names I'll forget by tomorrow. Ready to stand beside him while he networks, while he positions himself as the heir apparent to Sterling Commercial, while he soaks in his father's rare approval.

Ready to perform.

"Always," I say.

We step through the French doors, and the party swallows us whole.

The lawn stretches out like something from a magazine spread—which it probably has been, knowing Diane's tendency to invite Architectural Digest to "casual" family events. White tents billow gently in the evening breeze, their interiors glowing golden from the chandeliers someone hauled out here and suspended from temporary rigging that probably cost more than a small wedding. String lights crisscross overhead, creating constellations against the deepening sky. A jazz quartet plays near the rose garden, something smooth and unobtrusive that allows conversation to flow without competition.

Two hundred people mill across the manicured grass in their summer finest—women in cocktail dresses and statement jewelry despite Diane's supposed distaste for it, men in suits that telegraph their tax brackets. Servers weave through the crowd with champagne and canapés, their movements choreographed to near-invisibility.

It's beautiful. It's always beautiful. It's also exhausting.

Rowan's hand stays fixed on my back as we move into the crowd, his touch both possessive and absent—like I'm an accessory he's forgotten he's carrying. He's already scanning faces, calculating his approach, determining who's worth his time tonight.

"There's Davidson from Goldman," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

"And I think that's the Steinberg group near the bar. Dad wanted me to—"

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out one-handed, glances at the screen, and I catch the brief furrow of his brow before his expression smooths. He types something quickly, pockets it.

"Work?" I ask, though I know the answer.

"Always." He flashes me a smile, the one that used to make my stomach flip. Now it just registers as familiar.

"You know how it is."

I do.I know exactly how it is.

A server appears with champagne. Rowan takes two flutes, hands me one. Our fingers don't touch in the transfer.

"To a successful evening," he says, raising his glass.

I raise mine. "To success."

We drink. The champagne is excellent—Dom Pérignon, probably, because Conrad Sterling doesn't serve anything less at his events. It's crisp and cold and tastes like money.

"I should make the rounds," Rowan says, his eyes already tracking someone across the lawn.

“Conrad expects me to talk to the investors. You'll be alright?"

It's not really a question.

"Of course," I say. "I'll mingle."

"Perfect." He kisses my temple—another performance for whoever might be watching—and then he's moving away, his hand slipping from my back as he navigates toward a cluster of men in navy suits. I watch him go, watch the way he transforms as he approaches them. His shoulders broaden, his smile sharpens into something more calculated. This is Rowan in his element: networking, positioning, playing the game he was born into.