Page 58 of The Silver Fox Brother

She's working hard not to show it, but she's impressed.

"How far along are you?" she asks, bringing her gaze back down to ground level.

"Halfway," I say. "Fifteen of thirty floors complete. We're on schedule for the upper residential floors by September, penthouses by October."

Tom gestures toward the industrial construction elevator—an open-sided platform designed to move workers and materials between floors.

"We'll take you up to fifteen. That's where the model unit floors will be staged."

Winter nods, follows Tom toward the elevator. I fall into step beside her.

The platform is industrial-grade steel grating, safety rails on three sides, the fourth open to the shaft. It's built for function, not comfort. Tom hits the button, and we lurch upward with a mechanical groan.

As we rise, the site opens up below us. The ground floor sprawls with materials—stacks of lumber, pallets of tile, industrial equipment staged for the next phase of work. Workers move through the space with practiced efficiency, each one focused on their piece of the massive puzzle.

"The lobby will be here," I say, pointing down as we pass the second floor.

"Double-height ceiling, marble floors, custom millwork. First impression when residents and guests enter."

Winter leans slightly toward the open side of the elevator, looking down. The movement shifts her weight, and I notice the curve of her waist where the silk blouse meets the pencil skirt. The fabric pulls slightly across her hips.

I look away, focus on the building rising around us.

"Amenity floors?" she asks.

"Twenty-eight and twenty-nine," Tom answers.

"Gym, pool, spa, sauna, resident lounge. Full-service concierge desk."

"Smart placement," Winter says.

"High enough to feel exclusive, not so high that residents won't actually use them."

Tom grins. "That's exactly what Knox said when we were planning vertical programming."

The elevator continues its climb. We pass floor after floor of raw space—concrete subfloors, exposed mechanical systems, window openings not yet glazed. The bones of luxury residential living, waiting for the details that will transform it.

At the fifteenth floor, Tom brings the elevator to a shuddering stop.

We step off onto concrete that's been swept clean but still shows the wear of construction. This floor is further along than the lower levels—the exterior walls are up, windows installed, the floor plan clearly defined by framed interior walls waiting for drywall.

"This is where the two-bedroom model will be," I say, gesturing to the eastern unit.

"Two thousand square feet. Two bed, two and a half bath, open kitchen and living area."

Winter walks toward the space, her heels clicking on the concrete. She moves carefully, aware of the construction environment, but there's confidence in how she navigates the unfinished space.

She stops at the window opening—glass installed but protective film still covering it, giving the light a muted quality. Looks out at the view.

Tribeca spreads below. Lower Manhattan's skyline to the east, the Hudson River to the west catching afternoon sun, the financial district's towers glinting in the distance.

"The views will sell themselves," she says quietly.

"The views start the conversation," I correct.

"The design closes it."

She glances back at me. A slight smile.