Page 6 of The Silver Fox Brother

I'm left standing alone with my champagne, which is exactly where I've spent half of these events over the past two years. I could be bitter about it—some part of me probably is. But mostly I'm just... here. Present in body, performing the role, while my mind catalogs exits and counts down the hours until I can take off these heels.

"Winter! Darling!"

I turn. Diane Sterling glides toward me in a dove-gray column dress that probably cost what I paid for my first car. Her silver hair is swept into an elegant chignon—similar to mine, I realize, though hers looks effortless where mine required forty minutes and mounting frustration. She's in her late sixties but carries herself like royalty, which I suppose she is in these circles.

"Diane." I accept her air-kiss, careful not to actually make contact with her expertly applied makeup.

"Everything looks stunning, as always."

"Oh, this?" She waves a dismissive hand, but I can see the pleasure in her eyes. Diane Sterling doesn't do anything by half-measures. "Just a little gathering. Though I'm thrilled with how the tents turned out. You have such an eye for these things—what do you think of the lighting?"

It's a test. Everything with Diane is a test.

I glance at the chandeliers, the string lights, the carefully positioned uplighting on the rose bushes. "The layering is beautiful. Ambient, task, and accent—it creates depth without overwhelming the natural setting. And the warmth of the bulbs complements the sunset instead of competing with it."

Diane's smile sharpens with approval.

"See, this is why I adore you. Most of these girls—" she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "—wouldn't know good lighting from a hardware store special."

I smile, accepting the compliment that's also a subtle dig at everyone else here.

"It's my job to notice these things."

"Speaking of your job." Diane takes a delicate sip of her champagne.

"How is your little design firm doing? Rowan mentioned you're working on something in Chelsea?"

Little design firm.The words land like they always do—diminutive, dismissive, like I'm playing at business instead of running one.

"It's going well," I say, keeping my voice pleasant.

"Actually, I just signed a contract for a penthouse project. The Chen residence."

"How lovely. And is that a... substantial project?"

The question hangs there. She wants numbers. She always wants numbers.

"Three and a half million," I say. "My largest contract to date."

Diane's eyebrows lift—genuine surprise, which I count as a small victory.

"My. That is substantial. The Chens must have exquisite taste to have chosen you."

There it is.The implication that they chose me despite something,notbecause of my portfolio or reputation or the five years I've spent building Winter Hayes Design from nothing.

"They've been wonderful clients," I say instead.

"Very clear vision, which makes the collaboration smooth."

"Collaboration." Diane says the word like she's tasting it.

"That's so important, isn't it? In work, in relationships. Finding the right... fit."

Her eyes drift across the lawn to where Rowan is deep in conversation with three older men, his hands gesturing as he makes some point. When she looks back at me, there's a question in her expression that she's too polished to ask directly.

"When are you two going to set a date?" she asks instead.

"It's been two years, hasn't it? Or close to it?"