Chapter 6 #2
"It's massive. This project could be the biggest thing Sterling Commercial has done in five years."
He talks for the next ten minutes about the Brooklyn development—zoning challenges, architectural revisions, his father's evolving vision, the investors he's courting. I listen, nod at appropriate moments, ask questions that show I'm engaged.
My mind drifts.
Knox explaining his vision for Sterling Tower. The way he looked at the penthouse space, hands gesturing as he described what he wanted to create. His voice when he said, "Buildings are where people live their lives. That matters."
"Winter?"
I blink, refocus. Rowan is looking at me, wine glass halfway to his lips.
"Sorry. What?"
"I said you're quiet tonight."
"Just tired. Long day."
He sets his glass down, reaches across the table to touch my hand.
"You work too hard."
Coming from him, the statement feels ironic. But I don't say that.
"Maybe," I say instead.
The server returns to take our order. I choose the branzino. Rowan orders the ribeye, rare. The server nods and leaves.
Rowan's phone buzzes on the table.
He glances at it—just a quick look—but doesn't pick it up. The screen lights briefly, and I catch a glimpse of the notification.
M
Just the letter. No name, no context. The message preview is cut off, but it's there.
M.
Rowan looks back at me like nothing happened.
"So what's next for the Chen project? You mentioned prep work."
I pull my attention away from the phone.
"Final material selections. The millwork fabricator sent revised drawings that I need to approve. Mrs. Chen wants to do a site walk-through next week before installation starts."
"Sounds like everything's on track."
"It is."
The phone buzzes again.
Rowan's eyes flick to it, then back to me. He still doesn't pick it up.
"Popular tonight," I say, keeping my voice light.
"Just work stuff. It can wait."
We eat when the food arrives. The branzino is perfectly cooked—flaky, seasoned well, accompanied by roasted vegetables and a lemon butter sauce. I eat mechanically, tasting nothing, while Rowan talks about the ribeye and how it compares to the one he had last week at some steakhouse in Midtown.
The conversation flows like it always does—surface-level, safe, nothing that requires real vulnerability or connection. He talks about work. I talk about work. We discuss weekend plans that probably won't happen. We finish the wine.
By nine-thirty, we're done. Rowan pays the check and we leave the restaurant into the warm summer night.
"Want to walk?" he asks. "It's only ten blocks."
"Sure."
We head east, toward Gramercy. The streets are busy with people enjoying the warm evening—couples walking hand in hand, groups heading to bars, the energy of the city on a Thursday night in summer.
Rowan puts his arm around my shoulders. It's a familiar gesture, possessive in a way that used to feel protective but now just feels... automatic. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen.
"Work?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just some follow-ups." He types a quick response, pockets the phone again.
"Nothing urgent."
We walk in silence for a block. I look at the brownstones we pass, the iron railings and window boxes full of summer flowers. Somewhere in one of these buildings, people are living their lives—making dinner, watching TV, having conversations that matter. I wonder what that feels like.
"You're distant tonight," Rowan says, pulling me closer against his side.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"Work. Projects. The usual."
He kisses the top of my head.
"Always working. That brain of yours never stops."
I don't respond. We reach Gramercy Park by ten-twenty. The building's facade is lit beautifully at night, warm light spilling from the lobby windows. Daniel, the doorman, nods as we approach.
"Evening, Mr. Sterling., Ms. Hayes."
"Evening, Daniel," Rowan says.
We ride the elevator up in silence. Rowan checks his phone twice. I stare at the floor numbers ticking upward. Thirtieth floor.The doors open, and we walk down the hallway to our apartment.
Home.
Except it doesn't feel like home anymore. I'm not sure when it stopped feeling like home, but standing here now, watching Rowan unlock the door, I realize with sudden clarity: this space has been his all along. I've just been living in it.
We move through the apartment in the familiar routine of getting ready for bed. Rowan heads to the bedroom, loosening his tie. I stop in the kitchen for water, drink it standing at the sink while looking at nothing in particular.
When I enter the bedroom, he's already changed—gray sweatpants, a t-shirt from some corporate 5K he ran two years ago. He's sitting on his side of the bed, scrolling through his phone.
I go to the closet, change out of the emerald dress and into a sleep shirt—oversized, soft, ending mid-thigh. Remove my jewelry, set it in the small dish on my dresser. Wash my face in the bathroom, brush my teeth, braid my hair loosely to keep it out of my face while I sleep.
When I return to the bedroom, Rowan is still on his phone.
I get into bed on my side, pull the covers up, and lie there staring at the ceiling.
The apartment is quiet except for the ambient sounds of the city filtering through the windows. A car horn somewhere below. The distant wail of a siren. The soft tap of Rowan's fingers on his phone screen.
My mind won't settle.
I keep seeing Knox's office. The construction site. The view from the penthouse level—Manhattan spreading below, rivers catching sunlight on both sides, the sheer scale of what he's building.
Three days to decide.
"You okay?" Rowan's voice pulls me back.
I turn my head to look at him. He's set his phone on the nightstand—face down, as always—and is watching me.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Work. The Chen project. Timeline logistics."
He nods, loses interest immediately. Reaches over to turn off his bedside lamp.
The room dims to just the glow from my side of the bed.
"You coming to sleep?" he asks.
I reach for my own lamp. "Yeah."
The room goes dark. For a few minutes, we lie there in silence. I can hear his breathing, steady and even. My own breath feels too loud, too aware. Then I feel his hand on my waist.
"Winter."
His voice is different now. Lower. The tone I recognize.
He shifts closer, his hand moving from my waist to my hip, fingers slipping under the hem of my sleep shirt. Kisses my shoulder, then my neck. I don't pull away. Part of me wants to. Part of me is exhausted and still thinking about tomorrow and doesn't want this right now.
But part of me thinks maybe this will help. Maybe physical connection will close the distance I've been feeling. Maybe it will remind me why I'm here, why we're together, why this matters.
I turn toward him.
Rowan takes it as permission. His hands become more insistent, pulling my sleep shirt up and off. His mouth finds mine—kissing me in a way that feels more mechanical than passionate, going through motions we've done hundreds of times.
I kiss him back because that's what I'm supposed to do.
His hands move over my body—familiar territory, nothing surprising, nothing exploratory. He knows where to touch, what usually works, but tonight it feels perfunctory. Like he's checking boxes rather than connecting.
He shifts on top of me, and I let him. Spread my legs to accommodate him, and wrap my arms around his back because that's the choreography we've established over two years.
He fists his dick and pushes inside me without much preamble. No foreplay, no buildup, no question of whether I'm ready. Just assumes, moves, finds his rhythm quickly.
I close my eyes and try to be present. Try to find something in this that feels intimate, connected, real.
But all I feel is him moving above me, thrusting himself inside of me, focused entirely on himself, chasing his own release with single-minded efficiency.
I make few fake moans, as I’m barely as wet as I’d like to be.
It's over in minutes.
He does one last thrust, then comes with a quiet groan, his body tensing and then relaxing against mine. Stays inside me for a few seconds, as he finishes, breathing hard against my neck, then pulls out and rolls off.
He doesn't ask if I came—I didn’t—but he doesn't even ask. He never asks these days.
Rowan kisses my shoulder—automatic, obligatory—and settles onto his side of the bed.
"Night, babe."
Within three minutes, his breathing evens out into the rhythm of sleep. I lie there staring at the ceiling. Empty. Used. Alone despite the body sleeping eighteen inches away.
I think about Knox's hands when he was gesturing at the construction site. Strong, capable, the way his fingers traced invisible lines in the air when he was explaining his vision.
The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. Guilt follows immediately. I push it away, turn onto my side facing away from Rowan, and close my eyes. Sleep doesn't come quickly. I lie there in the dark, listening to Rowan's breathing deepen into soft snores, my mind refusing to settle.
The Chen project. The studio. Maya's schedule for tomorrow. The fabric samples that arrived today. Knox's business card in my portfolio.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift into uneasy sleep sometime after midnight, my last conscious thought about floor-to-ceiling windows and sunlight at impossible heights.
The apartment is silent.Both of us sleeping. Rowan's phone sits on his nightstand, screen dark, face down.
Thirty minutes pass.
12:33 AM.
The phone rings; jarring, loud, shattering the silence.
I jolt awake, heart immediately pounding, disoriented in the dark.
The phone keeps ringing. The screen lights up the room with harsh blue light.
Rowan doesn't stir. He sleeps like the dead, always has.
The ringing continues. I turn my head, squint at the nightstand. The screen shows a name.
‘M’
Who calls at 12:30 at night?