Chapter 1
Chapter One
Winter
The guest suite at the Sterling estate smells like money—old money, the kind that doesn't announce itself but permeates everything.
Gardenias from the arrangement on the vanity. The faint mustiness of antique furniture that costs more than most people's cars. Diane Sterling's preferred candle, something French with bergamot that probably runs two hundred dollars and burns in every room of this sprawling Hamptons monstrosity.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror, the one with the gilded frame that definitely belonged to someone's great-grandmother, and smooth my hands down the blush pink Valentino.
Knee-length, because Diane mentioned once—just once, two years ago—that she finds mini dresses "trying too hard" at formal events.
The fabric cost more than my first month's rent in Chicago, back when I was sleeping on an air mattress and building my portfolio on a laptop held together with duct tape.
That feels like a lifetime ago.
Now I'm here, in a guest suite bigger than that entire first apartment, preparing to play the role I've perfected over two years: Rowan Sterling's girlfriend.
The woman who smiles at the right moments, laughs at his colleagues' mediocre jokes, and stands beside him looking appropriately beautiful but not threatening.
I'm so fucking good at it.
The realization sits heavy in my chest as I reach for my earrings—simple diamond studs, because Diane also mentioned she finds statement jewelry "a bit much.
" I fasten them, tilt my head, assess. Blonde hair swept into a low chignon that took me forty minutes and three YouTube tutorials to perfect.
Makeup natural but flawless—the kind that looks effortless but requires fourteen products and the steady hand I developed drafting floor plans.
My phone buzzes on the marble vanity.
Rowan: Meet me downstairs in 10. Try not to be late.
Not "when you're ready." Not "no rush." Try not to be late, like I'm habitually tardy, like I'm the one who kept him waiting at that gallery opening last month while he took calls from "the office" that ran forty minutes past our reservation.
I stare at the text. Consider typing:
Winter: I’ve been ready for twenty minutes.
Delete it.
Winter: Almost done.
Delete that too.
Finally:
Winter: See you soon.
Professional. Neutral. The kind of response that can't be weaponized later.
Another buzz. Group text this time.
Kate: Survive tonight and brunch is on me tomorrow. Mimosas and shit-talking.
Amy: Seconded. Also you're gonna look hot. Send pics.
Kate: And remember to actually EAT. You always forget to eat at these things.
Amy: Because Rowan monopolizes her the whole night and she's too polite to grab apps.
Kate: Not polite. Performing.
I smile at my phone—the first genuine expression I've made since I started getting ready an hour ago.
These two know me better than anyone, including the man I've been dating for two years.
They were there when I landed my first real client, a West Village brownstone that paid me in exposure and a thousand dollars that felt like a million.
They were there when I signed the lease on my studio space in Tribeca, when I hired my first assistant, when I became Winter Hayes Design and not just Winter Hayes with a portfolio and a dream.
They were also there three months ago when I cried into cheap wine because Rowan forgot our anniversary. Again.
Winter: I'll eat. I promise. And the dress is working.
Amy: PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN
I angle my phone, snap a quick photo. The dress photographs well—it should, considering what I paid for it. Send.
Kate: Stunning. Now go be whoever you need to be tonight and come back to us tomorrow.
Amy: We'll debrief everything. Including whether Rowan's hot brother shows up. ??
Kate: AMY.
Amy: What? He's objectively attractive. I'm just saying.
Winter: I'm ignoring that. See you tomorrow.
I set my phone down before Amy can continue.
Knox Sterling isn't someone I think about, mostly because the few times I've been in the same room with him over the past two years, we've barely exchanged more than polite hellos.
He's Rowan's older brother, the one who left the family business a decade ago and built his own empire—a fact that Rowan mentions with varying degrees of bitterness depending on how much he's had to drink.
Mostly, Knox is tall. Imposing. The kind of presence that shifts energy when he enters a room, though he does it quietly, without Rowan's need for attention.
We've stood in the same circles at family events maybe four times.
Each time, his eyes have met mine for a handful of seconds—polite acknowledgment, nothing more—before he's moved on to whichever business associate or family obligation required his presence.
I know what the magazines say about him.
Forbes' lists, Manhattan Magazine's most eligible bachelors, the developer who's reshaping the city's skyline with buildings that somehow manage to be both minimalist and warm.
Amy texts me articles sometimes, usually with commentary about his bone structure.
I don't think about him beyond that. There's no reason to.
My phone buzzes again. Rowan.
Rowan: Downstairs. Now.
The shift from "in 10" to "now" in the span of four minutes would be funny if it weren't so perfectly him.
I slip my phone into my clutch—the small Bottega Veneta that Rowan bought me for Christmas, probably selected by whatever personal shopper he uses at Bergdorf's—and slide my feet into my Louboutins.
The heels are high enough to bring me closer to Rowan's six-two but not so high that I tower in photos.
Everything is calculated. I've learned to calculate.
One last look in the mirror. The woman looking back is polished, appropriate, exactly what a Sterling family event requires. She looks like she belongs in this world of old money and older expectations.
She looks nothing like the girl who showed up to New York with a duffel bag and a chip on her shoulder.
I miss that girl sometimes.
The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. I push it down, smooth my dress one final time, and head for the door.
The hallway is all dark wood and oil paintings of people who've been dead for a century, their eyes following me as I make my way to the grand staircase.
Voices float up from below—the party is already in full swing, two hundred of the Sterlings' closest friends gathering on the back lawn for whatever charity Diane has chosen to champion this year.
I pause at the top of the stairs, hand on the bannister. Below, I can see the edges of the crowd through the open French doors. White tents, string lights, the golden hour light that makes the Hamptons feel like a movie set. From here, it looks beautiful. Aspirational.
From here, I can't see the careful hierarchies, the whispered judgments, the way Diane's friends assess every woman under forty like we're horses at auction.
I descend. Each step perfectly measured in these heels, my hand light on the bannister because Diane once mentioned that gripping it "looks nervous.
" By the time I reach the bottom, my face has arranged itself into the expression I've practiced: pleasant, approachable, confident but not threatening.
Rowan waits in the foyer, talking to one of his father's business associates.
He's in a Tom Ford tux that fits him perfectly because he has a tailor on retainer.
His brown hair is styled with just enough product to look effortless.
He's objectively handsome—I fell for that face two years ago at a charity gala not unlike this one, when he'd smiled at me across a room and made me feel like the only person in it.
Now he glances up as I approach, and I watch his eyes travel over me. Assessing. Cataloging. His expression shifts into approval.
"You look beautiful," he says, stepping away from his conversation. His hand finds the small of my back, proprietary. He leans in, kisses my cheek—a performance for whoever's watching.
"My mother was right about that color."
Not you chose well. Not you look stunning. My mother was right.
I smile anyway. "She has excellent taste."
"That she does." His hand stays on my back, guiding me toward the French doors.
"Ready?"
I want to ask what I'm supposed to be ready for, but I know.
Ready to smile. Ready to make small talk with people whose names I'll forget by tomorrow.
Ready to stand beside him while he networks, while he positions himself as the heir apparent to Sterling Commercial, while he soaks in his father's rare approval.
Ready to perform.
"Always," I say.
We step through the French doors, and the party swallows us whole.
The lawn stretches out like something from a magazine spread—which it probably has been, knowing Diane's tendency to invite Architectural Digest to "casual" family events.
White tents billow gently in the evening breeze, their interiors glowing golden from the chandeliers someone hauled out here and suspended from temporary rigging that probably cost more than a small wedding.
String lights crisscross overhead, creating constellations against the deepening sky.
A jazz quartet plays near the rose garden, something smooth and unobtrusive that allows conversation to flow without competition.
Two hundred people mill across the manicured grass in their summer finest—women in cocktail dresses and statement jewelry despite Diane's supposed distaste for it, men in suits that telegraph their tax brackets.
Servers weave through the crowd with champagne and canapés, their movements choreographed to near-invisibility.
It's beautiful. It's always beautiful. It's also exhausting.