Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Winter
Amy shows up ten minutes later with Thai food for later and an extra set of hands.
"You weren't kidding about the boxes," Amy says, surveying the living room.
"How much stuff did you have in storage?"
"More than I thought." I hand Kate a champagne flute and pour for Amy.
"I forgot how much I accumulated before moving in with Rowan."
Kate raises her glass.
"Well, you're back now. In a place that's actually yours—at least for a while.”
We toast and drink, and then we get to work.
Kate tackles the kitchen boxes while Amy helps me arrange furniture in the living room.
The apartment has good bones—hardwood floors, high ceilings, windows that let in natural light from two directions.
It feels like home in a way the Gramercy apartment never did.
"This place is perfect," Kate says, emerging from the kitchen with an empty box.
"How did you find it?"
I'm hanging a piece of art on the wall, trying to get it level.
"I didn't. Knox arranged it."
Amy stops mid-push on the sofa we're repositioning.
"Knox Sterling got you this apartment?"
"It's a corporate apartment. Temporary. Until I find my own place."
Kate sets down the box and crosses her arms, grinning.
"A corporate apartment in Greenwich Village. How generous."
"It's practical," I say, echoing Knox's words from when he offered it.
"The project demands collaboration."
Amy and Kate exchange a look.
"Right," Amy says.
"Collaboration. Speaking of which, we haven't had a proper update. How are things working with Knox? You've been pretty quiet about it."
I step back to check if the art is straight. It's not. I adjust it slightly.
"The project is going well."
"That's not what she asked," Amy points out.
I turn to face them. "What do you want me to say?"
Kate sits on the arm of the sofa.
"How about the truth? What's it like working with him?"
"It was intense at first. Constant check-ins, very hands-on oversight. But he's backed off. He trusts my process now."
"And personally?" Kate asks.
"There is no personally. It's business."
Amy and Kate exchange another look, this one more pointed.
"We saw the photos in Business Insider," Kate says.
"The man is unfairly attractive."
I return to adjusting the art.
"I hadn't noticed."
Both of them laugh.
"Liar," Amy says.
"I'm working with him. That's all."
Kate stands and walks over to help me with the frame.
"Sure. And how's the actual work going? The project itself?"
I'm grateful for the redirect.
"Ahead of schedule. The two-bedroom unit is nearly complete. Three-bedroom is in progress. The penthouse is going to be spectacular."
"And Knox is happy with everything?"
"Yes. He challenges my choices, which I respect. But he trusts my expertise."
Kate holds the frame while I step back to check the level.
"Sounds like a good working relationship."
"It is."
Amy appears with more champagne.
"And what about Rowan?"
The name hits like cold water.
"What about him?" I take the champagne Kate hands me.
"He's still calling the studio," Amy says.
"Maya mentioned it when I ran into her last week."
I take a long drink. "I'm aware. I keep blocking his numbers. He keeps finding new ones."
Kate's expression shifts to concern.
"He sent more flowers?"
"Four bouquets this month. I give them all to Maya."
"He's not giving up," Kate observes.
"He will. Eventually. When he realizes I'm never taking him back."
Silence settles for a moment, and I can feel both of them watching me, trying to gauge how I'm really doing.
I set down my champagne.
"Can we please talk about literally anything else? I'm sick of giving Rowan Sterling any more mental space than he's already taken."
Amy nods. "Fair enough. So tell me about the penthouse design. What are you thinking?"
I launch into a description of the concept I'm developing—modern but warm, unexpected elements, art that makes a statement. Kate and Amy ask questions, and the conversation flows naturally away from Rowan and back to work, to design, to things I actually care about.
We unpack for another two hours. By the time we finish, the apartment looks like someone actually lives here. Books on shelves, art on walls, kitchen organized, bedroom set up.
Amy orders more Thai food while Kate opens another bottle of wine. We eat sitting on the floor around the coffee table, laughing about something ridiculous Amy's younger brother did during her trip to California.
Kate refills our glasses and raises hers.
"To new beginnings."
"To new beginnings," Amy and I echo.
We drink, and I look around the apartment—my apartment, at least for now—filled with my things and my best friends and the life I'm rebuilding piece by piece.
"Thank you," I say.
"For being here. For everything."
"Always," Amy says.
Kate nods in agreement. "That's what we do."
The evening stretches on, the conversation shifting through a dozen different topics. By the time Kate and Amy leave around nine, I'm exhausted but content.
I clean up the takeout containers, rinse the champagne flutes, and look around the apartment that's finally starting to feel like home.
***
It's midweek, and I'm in Knox's office finishing a meeting about penthouse staging. I gather my materials—fabric swatches, paint samples, the rendering I brought to show him the updated layout.
"Winter."
I turn back. Knox is standing by his desk, watching me.
"Do you have dinner plans?" he asks.
"What?" I’m caught off guard for a moment at the question.
"Dinner. Tonight. It's almost six."
I glance at my watch—5:50pm.
"I was planning to work late,” I say with intent.
"You've been working late every night this week,” he quips.
"So have you,” I respond.
"Exactly. We both need to eat. Might as well eat together.”
The statement sounds more like a command than a suggestion.
I hesitate, my materials still in my arms. This is different from the lunch we had weeks ago. Lunch was midday, quick, professional. Dinner is evening, longer, more personal.
"Unless you'd rather not," Knox adds.
"No. I mean, yes. Dinner is fine."
"Good. I'll make a call."
He pulls out his phone and speaks to someone briefly. I can't hear the full conversation, just his voice confirming a time. He hangs up and looks at me.
"Table in twenty minutes. It's close. We can walk."
"What about your driver?"
"I gave Victor the evening off."
Something about that statement feels significant, but I don't examine it too closely.
"Okay," I say. "Let me drop these materials in my office."
"I'll meet you in the lobby."
By the time I return to the lobby, Knox is already there, suit jacket still on but tie loosened slightly at the collar.
We step outside into the early evening. It's late summer in Manhattan, still light out, the air warm but not oppressive. We walk side by side through the West Village, maintaining professional distance, but this feels different from walking to site visits. This feels personal.
"How's the apartment working out?" Knox asks after a block of silence.
"It's perfect. Really. Thank you again."
"Stop thanking me. It's a practical solution."
"Still. It was generous."
Knox glances at me. "You would have done the same."
"I don't have corporate apartments to offer."
"You would have found another way to help."
I look at him. "How do you know?"
"Because I've watched you work for the past two months. You solve problems. It's what you do."
There's warmth in his voice, something different from his usual professional tone.
"Is that a compliment?" I ask.
"It's an observation."
"Sounds like a compliment."
Knox almost smiles. "Take it however you want."
We reach the restaurant a few minutes later. It's small, intimate, not the kind of place you bring clients for business dinners. Candlelit tables, soft music, quiet conversations. Romantic. My pulse quickens. This doesn't feel like a business dinner.
The hostess greets us with a warm smile.
"Mr. Sterling. Your table is ready."
She leads us to a corner table, private and away from the other diners. Knox pulls out my chair, and I sit. The hostess hands us menus and disappears. Knox looks at me across the table.
"Wine?"
I meet his eyes. "Yes."
"Definitely yes."
We order wine—a red that Knox selects without consulting the list. The sommelier nods approvingly and disappears. The first glass goes down faster than it should. Knox signals for a second bottle before we've even ordered food.
"Trying to get me drunk?" I ask.
"Trying to get you to relax."
"I'm relaxed."
Knox leans back in his chair.
"You're tense. You’ve been tense for the past two months.”
"So have you."
"Fair point."
The waiter appears with menus. We order without really looking—something that sounds good, food that neither of us will remember later.
The waiter leaves, and we're alone again in our corner of the restaurant.
The conversation starts safe. Project timelines.
Material deliveries. The usual topics we've covered in dozens of meetings.
But the wine loosens something between us.
Knox sets down his glass and looks at me directly.
"Can I ask you something?"
"That depends on what you're asking."
"Rowan. What happened?"
My shoulders tense immediately.
"You don't have to answer," Knox adds quickly.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I've seen how you react when his name comes up. Because you're living in a corporate apartment instead of your own place. Because something happened that made you walk away from two years."
I take another drink of wine.
"Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't. Not professionally. But I'm curious."
The wine has lowered my defenses enough that I answer.
"He cheated. For over a year. I found out when his mistress called his phone at twelve-thirty at night."
Knox's expression hardens.
"He's an idiot."
I laugh, and it comes out bitter.
"That's one word for it."
"How did you find out? I mean, the details. If you want to share."