Page 57 of The Silver Fox Brother

I don't shift. Neither does she.

"We're almost there," Victor says from the front seat, pulling me back to the present.

I look out the window. We're in Tribeca now, the streets narrowing, the buildings shifting from glass towers to themix of old industrial and new construction that defines this neighborhood.

And then Sterling Tower comes into view. Even unfinished, it's impressive. Thirty stories of steel and glass rising from the Tribeca streets, construction cranes visible at the top, the skeleton of what will eventually be Manhattan's newest luxury address.

Winter leans forward slightly, looking through the windshield. I see her eyes widen—just a fraction, quickly controlled. She's impressed. She's trying not to show it, but she's impressed.

The car pulls up to the construction entrance. Victor parks, gets out, comes around to open Winter's door.

I exit from my side, meet her on the sidewalk.

The summer heat hits immediately after the cool car interior. The construction site radiates warmth—concrete and steel baking under the afternoon sun, the smell of dust and fresh materials.

Tom Barrett, my site manager, is already walking toward us with two hardhats in hand.

"Knox." He nods, then turns to Winter.

"Ms. Hayes. Welcome to Sterling Tower."

Winter shakes his hand.

"Thank you. It's impressive."

Tom hands her a hardhat.

"Safety requirement. Sorry about the hair."

She takes it with a slight smile.

"I've worn hardhats before."

And somehow, when she puts it on, she still looks elegant. The professional armor doesn't crack—black pencilskirt, cream blouse, Louboutin heels, and now a construction hardhat.

I notice but I don't comment.

Tom hands me my hardhat, and I put it on automatically, my attention still on Winter as she adjusts the strap, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Ready?" I ask.

She looks up at the building rising above us, then back at me.

"Ready."

We head toward the construction entrance, Tom leading the way, Winter beside me, both of us crossing the threshold from sidewalk to site.

The construction site is controlled chaos.

Workers in hardhats navigate scaffolding, the screech of metal cutting through metal, the rhythmic percussion of nail guns firing in rapid succession. Concrete dust hangs in the summer air, catching the afternoon light. The smell is industrial—fresh lumber, wet concrete, the metallic tang of steel beams being welded somewhere above us.

Sterling Tower rises thirty stories into the summer sky, its steel skeleton visible against the blue, construction cranes perched at the top like mechanical birds.

Winter stops just inside the entrance, tilting her head back to take in the full scale.

I watch her reaction. The slight widening of her eyes. The way her lips part just barely as she assesses the building's footprint, the scope, the vision taking shape in steel and concrete.

She's impressed.