Chapter 1 #2
Rowan's hand stays fixed on my back as we move into the crowd, his touch both possessive and absent—like I'm an accessory he's forgotten he's carrying. He's already scanning faces, calculating his approach, determining who's worth his time tonight.
"There's Davidson from Goldman," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
"And I think that's the Steinberg group near the bar. Dad wanted me to—"
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out one-handed, glances at the screen, and I catch the brief furrow of his brow before his expression smooths. He types something quickly, pockets it.
"Work?" I ask, though I know the answer.
"Always." He flashes me a smile, the one that used to make my stomach flip. Now it just registers as familiar.
"You know how it is."
I do. I know exactly how it is.
A server appears with champagne. Rowan takes two flutes, hands me one. Our fingers don't touch in the transfer.
"To a successful evening," he says, raising his glass.
I raise mine. "To success."
We drink. The champagne is excellent—Dom Pérignon, probably, because Conrad Sterling doesn't serve anything less at his events. It's crisp and cold and tastes like money.
"I should make the rounds," Rowan says, his eyes already tracking someone across the lawn.
“Conrad expects me to talk to the investors. You'll be alright?"
It's not really a question.
"Of course," I say. "I'll mingle."
"Perfect." He kisses my temple—another performance for whoever might be watching—and then he's moving away, his hand slipping from my back as he navigates toward a cluster of men in navy suits.
I watch him go, watch the way he transforms as he approaches them.
His shoulders broaden, his smile sharpens into something more calculated.
This is Rowan in his element: networking, positioning, playing the game he was born into.
I'm left standing alone with my champagne, which is exactly where I've spent half of these events over the past two years.
I could be bitter about it—some part of me probably is.
But mostly I'm just... here. Present in body, performing the role, while my mind catalogs exits and counts down the hours until I can take off these heels.
"Winter! Darling!"
I turn. Diane Sterling glides toward me in a dove-gray column dress that probably cost what I paid for my first car.
Her silver hair is swept into an elegant chignon—similar to mine, I realize, though hers looks effortless where mine required forty minutes and mounting frustration.
She's in her late sixties but carries herself like royalty, which I suppose she is in these circles.
"Diane." I accept her air-kiss, careful not to actually make contact with her expertly applied makeup.
"Everything looks stunning, as always."
"Oh, this?" She waves a dismissive hand, but I can see the pleasure in her eyes. Diane Sterling doesn't do anything by half-measures. "Just a little gathering. Though I'm thrilled with how the tents turned out. You have such an eye for these things—what do you think of the lighting?"
It's a test. Everything with Diane is a test.
I glance at the chandeliers, the string lights, the carefully positioned uplighting on the rose bushes. "The layering is beautiful. Ambient, task, and accent—it creates depth without overwhelming the natural setting. And the warmth of the bulbs complements the sunset instead of competing with it."
Diane's smile sharpens with approval.
"See, this is why I adore you. Most of these girls—" she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "—wouldn't know good lighting from a hardware store special."
I smile, accepting the compliment that's also a subtle dig at everyone else here.
"It's my job to notice these things."
"Speaking of your job." Diane takes a delicate sip of her champagne.
"How is your little design firm doing? Rowan mentioned you're working on something in Chelsea?"
Little design firm. The words land like they always do—diminutive, dismissive, like I'm playing at business instead of running one.
"It's going well," I say, keeping my voice pleasant.
"Actually, I just signed a contract for a penthouse project. The Chen residence."
"How lovely. And is that a... substantial project?"
The question hangs there. She wants numbers. She always wants numbers.
"Three and a half million," I say. "My largest contract to date."
Diane's eyebrows lift—genuine surprise, which I count as a small victory.
"My. That is substantial. The Chens must have exquisite taste to have chosen you."
There it is. The implication that they chose me despite something, not because of my portfolio or reputation or the five years I've spent building Winter Hayes Design from nothing.
"They've been wonderful clients," I say instead.
"Very clear vision, which makes the collaboration smooth."
"Collaboration." Diane says the word like she's tasting it.
"That's so important, isn't it? In work, in relationships. Finding the right... fit."
Her eyes drift across the lawn to where Rowan is deep in conversation with three older men, his hands gesturing as he makes some point. When she looks back at me, there's a question in her expression that she's too polished to ask directly.
"When are you two going to set a date?" she asks instead.
"It's been two years, hasn't it? Or close to it?"
My chest tightens. "Just over two years."
"And still no ring." She sighs, delicate and pointed.
"I know Rowan is focused on the business right now, but a man his age should be thinking about settling down. Continuity, you know. Legacy."
I'm only thirty, but in Diane’s math I’m nearly past my prime. Running out of time to produce the Sterling heirs she's cataloging in her mental ledger.
"We're both very focused on our careers right now," I say, the words automatic.
"When the time is right—"
"Of course, of course." Diane pats my arm.
"Though career is wonderful, dear, but it's not everything. Don't forget to make time for what matters."
She drifts away before I can respond, pulled into conversation with a couple I vaguely recognize from last year's gala. I'm left standing there with half a glass of champagne and the distinct feeling of having failed some invisible assessment.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it out.
Amy: Status report: surviving?
Kate: And have you eaten yet?
I glance around. A server passes with what looks like tuna tartare on tiny spoons. I flag them down, take two, eat them without tasting.
Winter: Surviving. Just had the "when are you getting married" conversation with Diane.
Amy: YIKES
Kate: What did you say?
Winter: The usual. Focused on careers. When the time is right.
Kate: Has Rowan even mentioned marriage lately?
I stare at the text. Try to remember the last time Rowan brought up our future in concrete terms, not just vague "someday" statements.
I can't.
Winter: Not really.
Kate: Win...
Winter: I know. We'll talk tomorrow. Promise.
I pocket my phone before Kate can push further. Another server appears with champagne; I swap my empty glass for a full one. The evening is settling into that golden hour where everything looks soft and forgiving, where the wealth on display seems almost justified by its beauty.
I drift toward the edge of the crowd, near the rose garden where the jazz quartet plays.
From here I can see the whole party—the clusters of conversation, the networking happening under the guise of social niceties, the careful dance of power and influence that these people have perfected over generations.
Rowan is still with the investors, laughing at something one of them said.
His hand gestures are expansive, confident.
He looks at home here in a way I never quite manage, despite two years of practice.
This is his world. His birthright. I'm just the woman on his arm who's learned to navigate it without causing a scene.
"Excuse me, are you Winter Hayes?"
I turn. A woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a Hermès scarf smiles at me.
"I thought I recognized you from the article in Metropolitan Home. That brownstone restoration in the West Village was stunning."
Something loosens in my chest.
"Thank you. That was one of my favorite projects."
"I could tell. The way you honored the original architecture while modernizing—it was masterful. I've been thinking about redoing our apartment in the city. Do you have a card?"
I reach into my clutch, pull out one of the simple cream cardstock cards embossed with "Winter Hayes Design" and my contact information. She takes it, examining it with genuine interest.
"I'll call your office next week," she says. "I'd love to discuss possibilities."
"I look forward to it."
She drifts away, and I feel marginally more human. This is what I'm good at—design, creation, building something beautiful and functional from empty space. Not this, not performing at garden parties where my worth is measured by my proximity to a Sterling.
My phone buzzes again. I glance down, expecting Kate or Amy.
It's Rowan.
Rowan: Where are you?
I look across the lawn. He's scanning the crowd, phone in hand, clearly looking for me.
Winter: Rose garden. Near the quartet.
Rowan: Stay there. Coming to you.
I watch him extract himself from his conversation, making his apologies with that easy charm that probably comes from a lifetime of knowing he matters. He weaves through the crowd, phone in hand, glancing at it every few steps.
When he reaches me, his hand immediately finds my waist.
"There you are."
"You told me to mingle."
"I know. But people are starting to ask where you went." He pulls me closer, his cologne—something expensive and woody that I used to love—filling my space.
"How's it going? Mother cornered you yet?"
"Already done. Got the marriage question."
He grimaces. "She ask you or tell you?"
"With Diane, is there a difference?"