Page 60 of The Silver Fox Brother

Focus on the work. The project. The reason we're here.

"Twelve hundred square feet," I say, walking toward where she's standing.

"This is the master suite."

Winter doesn't turn around. She's staring at the view, at the city spread below, at the rivers catching light on either side of Manhattan.

"The light here," she says quietly. "It's extraordinary."

"East and south exposure," I confirm, stopping a few feet behind her. Close enough to be part of the conversation, far enough to maintain professional distance.

"Morning sun, afternoon warmth."

"You'd want to embrace that." She finally turns, and the movement brings her face into full sunlight. Her blue eyes catch the light, become almost translucent.

"Not fight it. Sheer panels for privacy, but let the light be the hero of the space."

"That's exactly what I was thinking."

She walks the perimeter of what will be the master suite, her hands gesturing as she talks, sketching invisible zones in the air.

"You'd create micro-environments," she says, her voice taking on that animated quality I noticed in my office.

"A sitting area here by the windows—low seating, maybe a chaise, somewhere to read in the morning light. The bed here, oriented to wake up to the sunrise but not directly in the glare."

I follow her movement, watching her work through the space.

"Custom millwork along this wall," she continues, pointing to where the interior wall will eventually go.

"Built-in storage that doesn't feel like storage. Everything concealed but accessible."

"What about the bathroom?" I ask.

Winter turns, looks at where the ensuite will be carved out of the larger space.

"Spa-like. Freestanding tub positioned to see the view. Walk-in shower with multiple heads. But warm materials—stone, wood, brass. Not cold marble and chrome."

"Lived-in luxury," I say.

She glances at me. Smiles slightly.

"You really do keep saying that."

"Because I mean it."

We're standing maybe six feet apart now, both of us in that shaft of sunlight pouring through the window. The concrete dust in the air catches the light, makes everything feel suspended, almost dreamlike.

Winter gestures toward the southern window opening.

"What's the view from the bedroom?"

I walk over, and she follows. We stand side by side, looking out at lower Manhattan spreading below us.

"Financial District," I say. "The harbor. On clear days, you can see all the way to the Verrazano Bridge."

"It's perfect," she says quietly. Then, as if catching herself, adds:

"For the market you're targeting. Eight-figure buyers want views that justify the price."