Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Winter
The car pulls up in front of the Gramercy Park building just after five-thirty.
Victor, Knox's driver, gets out and comes around to open my door. He's been quiet the entire ride—professional, unobtrusive, the kind of driver who understands when silence is more appropriate than small talk.
"Ms. Hayes," he says, offering his hand to help me out.
I take it, step onto the sidewalk.
"Thank you, Victor."
"My pleasure. Have a good evening."
He gets back in the car and pulls away, merging smoothly into the evening traffic. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, portfolio clutched against my body, and take a breath.
The past two hours feel like they happened to someone else.
Knox's office. The construction site. The penthouse level with sunlight pouring through unfinished windows. His voice explaining his vision, his eyes when he looked at me across that conference table.
Eight to ten million dollars.
I shake my head slightly and turn toward the building. The doorman nods as I enter.
"Evening, Ms. Hayes."
"Hi, Daniel."
The lobby is cool, marble floors echoing my footsteps as I cross to the elevators. I press the button, wait. The doors open immediately—no one else getting on at this hour, the building still quiet before the evening rush of residents returning from work.
I step inside, press the button, and as the elevator rises, and I lean back against the mirrored wall, closing my eyes.
Breathe.
Knox Sterling just offered me the biggest project of my career. Fifty-five hundred square feet of penthouse design, plus two additional model units. Six months to execute. Full creative control within his vision. A budget that makes the Chen project look modest by comparison.
It's more than I've ever been offered. More than I thought I'd see for another five years, maybe longer.
The elevator chimes, and the doors open. I step out, walk down the hallway to our apartment. Fish the key from my bag, unlock the door, and push it open.
The apartment is empty. Relief hits me before I can stop it. I'd completely forgotten what Rowan had planned for today—some investor meeting, or maybe it was the Brooklyn site review. Doesn't matter. He's not here, and I'm grateful for the space.
I close the door behind me, set my portfolio on the console table, and kick off my heels. My feet ache—four hours in Louboutins, half of that navigating a construction site. I leave the shoes by the door and pad across the cool marble in bare feet.
The apartment is silent except for the ambient hum of the city outside. Summer evening light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and golden.
I move through the space on autopilot. Kitchen. Glass from the cabinet. Fill it with filtered water from the tap. Drink half of it standing there, staring at nothing. My mind won't stop replaying the afternoon.
Knox Sterling.
I've seen him at family events over the past two years—brief interactions, polite hellos across crowded rooms. But today was different. Today, I was in his space, his office, standing across from him with nothing between us but a business proposal and two hours of undivided attention.
His presence is... a lot.
Commanding. Intense. The kind of person who takes up space without trying, whose silence carries as much weight as his words.
I understand now why people find him intimidating—there's something about the way he looks at you, like he's seeing past whatever you're showing him to whatever you're trying to hide.
But I held my own. At least..I think I held my own.
I finish the water, set the glass in the sink, and walk to the living room windows. Look out at Gramercy Park below, the trees full and green with summer, the paths lit by vintage lampposts as evening settles in.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
I retrieve it, glance at the screen. Text from Rowan.
Rowan: Dinner reservations at 8. That Italian place. Meet me there or I'll pick you up?
I stare at the text. I could tell him about the meeting. About Knox's offer. About the decision I have to make by Monday.
But I won't.
The thought comes immediately, instinctively.
I won't tell him.
Not because I'm hiding anything. Not because I've done anything wrong. But because I know how that conversation goes.
Rowan is... temperamental when it comes to his brother.
In the two years we've been together, he's mentioned Knox maybe a handful of times, always in passing, always with an edge to his voice that suggests old wounds not fully healed.
I don't know the full story—family politics that predate me, dynamics I'm not part of—but I know enough to understand that Knox's name is a trigger.
And this? Knox offering me a project? That would be more than a trigger.
That would be a detonation.
I type back.
Winter: I'll meet you there. What time?
Rowan: 8 PM. Reservation's under my name.
Winter: See you then.
I set my phone on the coffee table and sink onto the sofa.
The leather is cool against my skin. I pull my knees up, wrap my arms around them, and stare at the view.
Eight to ten million dollars.
The number keeps circling back. It's not just the money—though the money is staggering, more than enough to hire another designer, expand the studio, take on projects I've had to turn down because of capacity constraints. It's what the project represents.
Sterling Tower will be featured in every major design publication.
Architectural Digest, Elle Decor, Luxe, all of them.
I fought hard for the upcoming AD feature.
But I know this project would give the kind of long range exposure that turns a small firm into a destination firm.
The kind of portfolio piece that opens doors I haven't even thought to knock on yet.
And Knox Sterling chose me for it. Specifically requested Winter Hayes Design.
That means something. But it also means complications I'm not sure I'm ready to navigate.
Working with Knox would mean... what? Meetings.
Site visits. Weeks of collaboration on design direction, material selection, all the details that go into creating three fully staged luxury residences.
It would mean being in his orbit regularly, professionally, unavoidably—while living with his brother.
How would that even work?
I imagine lying in bed next to Rowan, knowing I'm working with Knox. Keeping that secret across dinner conversations, family gatherings, all the small moments where truth is supposed to exist between people in a relationship.
Could I do that? Should I do that?
My phone buzzes again. I don't pick it up immediately. Just stare at it vibrating on the glass coffee table.
This is a business decision. That's what Knox said in his office.
"This is business."
And he's right. Developers reach out to designers all the time. It's how the industry works. There's nothing inappropriate about accepting a project from someone based purely on professional qualifications.
Except when that someone is your boyfriend's estranged brother.
I pick up my phone. Another text from Rowan.
Rowan: Looking forward to tonight. Been a long day. Need to see you.
My chest tightens reading it.
He doesn't know I spent the afternoon with Knox, doesn't know about the offer, doesn't know I'm sitting here weighing whether to accept the biggest opportunity of my career. And I'm not going to tell him—not tonight—maybe not ever. That thought should bother me more than it does.
I stand, head to the bedroom. I need to change, freshen up, be ready to meet Rowan for dinner at eight like everything is normal. Like I didn't just spend two hours with his brother discussing a project that could change everything.
The restaurant is tucked into a quiet corner of the West Village, the kind of place with white tablecloths and candlelight and prices that don't appear on the menu.
I arrive at eight exactly. Rowan is already there—seated at our usual table by the window, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when the hostess leads me over, stands, and kisses my cheek.
"You look beautiful," he says.
I'm wearing the emerald green dress I changed into after getting home—fitted, knee-length, safe.
"Thank you."
He pulls out my chair. I sit, and he returns to his seat across from me.
The server appears immediately.
"Good evening. Can I start you with something to drink?"
Rowan glances at me. "Wine?"
"Please."
"We'll take a bottle of the Barolo," Rowan tells the server.
"The 2016."
The server nods and disappears. Rowan sets his phone on the table—screen down, as always—and leans back in his chair.
"How was your day?"
The question catches me off guard. When was the last time he asked about my day without prompting?
"Busy," I say. "Client meetings. Site visits."
"Anything interesting?"
I reach for my water glass, take a sip.
"Just the usual. Chen project prep mostly."
"That project is really coming together for you."
"It is."
The server returns with the wine, goes through the ritual of showing Rowan the label, pouring a taste, waiting for his approval. Rowan nods, and the server fills both our glasses before leaving the bottle on the table.
Rowan raises his glass. "To a good week."
I raise mine, and we drink.
The wine is good—rich, smooth, exactly the kind of expensive vintage Rowan always orders. I take another sip and set my glass down.
"How was your day?" I ask, because that's what I'm supposed to ask.
His face lights up.
"Good. Really good, actually. The Brooklyn development is moving faster than projected. My father was actually impressed with the timeline adjustments I proposed."
"That's great."
"It is. Means we might break ground two months early, which would give us a huge advantage in the market." He leans forward slightly, animated now.
"And the investor calls this afternoon went well. We're looking at another twenty million in backing if we can finalize the zoning approvals."
"That's significant."