Page 9 of The Silver Fox Brother

"What announcement?"

"The Brooklyn project. Final approvals came through this week. He's going public with it tonight." Rowan's eyes gleam with something like hunger.

"This is the big one, Win. The one that proves I can handle the real development deals, not just maintenance and acquisitions."

I recognize that look. It's the same one he gets when he talks about his father's approval, about proving himself, about being the son Conrad Sterling can be proud of. Rowan has spent his whole life chasing that approval, competing with the ghost of his brother who walked away from it all and somehow became more successful anyway.

"That's incredible," I say, meaning it. "Congratulations."

"Not yet. Not until my dad actually says it publicly." He kisses my forehead, distracted.

"But soon."

His phone buzzes again. This time when he checks it, I catch a glimpse of the screen.

M: Miss you

Just the letterM. No name, no context. His thumb swipes it away quickly, but not before I see it.

Something cold settles in my stomach.

"Who's M?" The question comes out before I can stop it.

Rowan's expression doesn't change.

"What?"

"The text.M.Who is that?"

"Oh." He glances at his phone like he's forgotten what he just read.

"Mike. One of the investors. Guy texts like a teenager." He pockets the phone.

"Nothing important."

The explanation is smooth, delivered without hesitation. If I weren't watching closely, I'd miss the way his shoulders tense slightly, the micro-expression that flickers before his face settles back into casual confidence.

I should push. Should ask why an investor would text "miss you." Should trust the instinct that's currently screaming that something isn't right.

Instead, I hear myself say, "Okay."

Because pushing means confrontation. Confrontation means potentially discovering something I'm not ready to know. And I have a client meeting Monday, and a project to finish, and a business to run, and I can't afford to blow up my personal life right now when my professional life is finally where I want it to be.

So I choose not to see. Consciously, deliberately, I choose to accept the lie. Rowan relaxes.

"I really should get back. You good here?"

"I'm good."

He kisses my cheek and disappears back into the crowd, leaving me alone with my champagne and the growing certainty that I'm very good at lying to myself.

The jazz quartet shifts into something slower, more melancholy. I finish my champagne and flag down a server for another. The party swirls around me—laughter, conversation, the performance of wealth and status. I'm part of it and separate from it all at once, which is exactly how I've felt for two years.

My phone buzzes.

Kate: You ok?

I stare at the text. Consider telling her about the M text, about the smooth lie, about the way I'm choosing not to see what's right in front of me.