Chapter 2 #2
I think about those three seconds. The way his eyes met mine across the tent.
The brief acknowledgment, nothing more, but something about it felt.
.. seen. Like in that moment, we recognized something in each other.
Two people navigating the same complicated family dynamics, both present but separate.
"I noticed him," I say carefully. "Hard not to. He has a presence."
"A presence," Amy repeats. "That's the most diplomatic description of 'stupidly hot' I've ever heard."
"I didn't say he was hot."
"You didn't have to. Your face just did."
"My face did not—"
"It absolutely did. You got this little expression. This thoughtful, distant thing, like you're remembering something specific."
"I'm remembering that he exists and showed up to his parents' party for approximately twenty minutes before leaving."
"Twenty minutes?" Kate asks.
"If that. He came in, said hello to his parents, nodded at Rowan from across the room, and then left."
"Did they talk? Knox and Rowan?"
"No. Just the nod. Very formal, very distant. Someone at the party told me they can barely be in the same room without the temperature dropping."
Amy whistles low. "Family dynamics. Got to love them."
"Rowan was pretty bitter about it," I say, remembering the edge in his voice.
"He made some comment about Knox thinking he's too good for the family, for the business, for all of it."
"Is he?" Kate asks. "Too good for it?"
I consider the question. "I don't know if it's about being too good. It seemed more like... he needed to build something that was his. Not inherited, not expected. His own."
"That's actually kind of admirable," Kate says.
"It is. But it also makes Rowan crazy because Rowan wants the inheritance, the legacy, the approval. And Knox walked away from all of it like it meant nothing."
"Which probably makes Conrad crazy too," Amy adds.
"Imagine grooming your oldest son to take over the empire and he just... leaves. Starts competing with you instead."
"I can't even imagine. The whole family is—" I stop, searching for the right word.
"Complicated doesn't even cover it."
"And you're dating into the middle of all that complication," Kate points out.
"I'm dating Rowan. Not his family."
"Are you though? Because from where I'm sitting, the family comes with the territory. You can't separate them."
She's right, of course. The Sterlings are a package deal.
Dating Rowan means navigating Diane's expectations, Conrad's assessments, the ghost of Knox's rejection hanging over everything.
It means performing at garden parties and charity galas, means being measured against standards I'll never fully understand because I wasn't born into them.
"Can we talk about something else?" I ask. "Anything else?"
"Your project," Kate says immediately.
"Tell us about the Chen penthouse. Real details, not the sanitized version."
I grab onto the subject change like a lifeline.
For the next twenty minutes, I tell them about the Chen project—the scope, the budget, the design direction.
Amy asks about color palettes and Kate wants to know about timeline and logistics.
They're genuinely interested, asking follow-up questions, celebrating the details that Rowan would dismiss as boring.
This is what I needed. Not judgment about Rowan, not analysis of my relationship, just my two best friends being excited about my work because they understand it matters.
"Three and a half million," Amy says when I finish.
"Win, that's incredible. That's career-defining."
"It is."
"And Rowan said 'that's great, babe,'" Kate adds, bringing us full circle.
I sigh. "Yes. He said that."
"Do you see the problem?"
"I see a lot of problems. I'm just not sure what to do about them."
"You could start by having an actual conversation with him," Amy suggests.
"Tell him you need more. More attention, more support, more acknowledgment of your career."
"I've tried."
"Try harder. Or try differently. Or—" Kate hesitates. "—decide if you want to keep trying at all."
The waiter returns with our check. We split it three ways, the comfortable routine of years of Sunday brunches. As we gather our things and prepare to leave, Amy gives me a long look.
"We love you," she says.
"You know that, right? And whatever you decide—stay, go, try harder, give up—we support you. But we also think you deserve someone who sees you. Really sees you. Not just the version of you that fits into their world."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I don't answer. Because I'm not sure I do know. I'm not sure I believe I deserve more than what I have. And that, more than anything, is probably the real problem.
We leave the bistro, stepping out into the Sunday afternoon sunlight. The city is quieter today—fewer people, less urgency, the kind of weekend calm that makes Manhattan feel almost livable. We hug goodbye at the corner, Kate heading toward the subway and Amy toward her apartment a few blocks away.
"Think about what we said," Kate calls over her shoulder.
"And text us. Let us know you're okay."
"I will."
I watch them go, these two women who know me better than anyone, who love me enough to tell me hard truths over mimosas and pancakes. Then I pull out my phone and request a car.
Tomorrow is Monday. Back to work, back to the studio, back to the world where I know exactly who I am and what I'm worth.
Back to pretending everything with Rowan is fine.
My phone buzzes as the car pulls up.
Rowan: Brunch with the girls?
Winter: Yeah. Just finished. Heading home now. How's the Hamptons?
Rowan: Long. Conrad’s going over every detail of the Brooklyn project. But productive.
Winter: Good. When are you back?
Rowan: Tomorrow morning as planned. Early meeting at the office.
Winter: Okay. See you then.
Rowan: Miss you.
I stare at those two words. They should make me feel warm, wanted.
Instead, I feel relieved that I have tonight to myself.
Winter: Miss you too.
I get in the car and give the driver our Gramercy Park address. The apartment will be empty when I get there—just me, my thoughts, and the Chen project materials I need to review before tomorrow's kickoff meeting.
For tonight, at least, I have space to breathe.
Monday morning hits Manhattan with the kind of humid heat that makes the air feel thick enough to chew.
By the time I push through the heavy glass door of Winter Hayes Design at eight-thirty, my silk blouse is already clinging to my back despite the short walk from the subway.
The blast of air conditioning is immediate relief, raising goosebumps on my arms as I step into the space I've spent five years building from nothing.
The studio occupies the entire third floor of a converted Tribeca loft—three thousand square feet of exposed brick, original hardwood floors worn smooth by a century of footsteps, and floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with natural light.
When I signed the lease five years ago, it was raw space: concrete, exposed ductwork, the bones of something that could be beautiful if someone saw the potential.
I saw it.
Now, the eastern wall is lined with our materials library—fabric samples organized by texture and color, stone and tile specimens arranged on floating shelves, paint chips fanned out in gradient progressions that shift from warm to cool.
The northern corner houses our design stations: four large drafting tables where my team spreads blueprints and sketches, surrounded by inspiration boards covered in tearsheets, material swatches, and photographs of completed projects.
Three glass-walled offices occupy the western side—mine is the largest, positioned to catch afternoon light, with a view of the street below and enough space for a full conference table.
The center of the studio is open—a collaboration zone with a massive vintage farmhouse table we found at a salvage yard in Brooklyn, surrounded by mismatched chairs that somehow work together.
This is where we gather for creative sessions, where ideas get sketched on rolls of trace paper and debated over coffee that's always too strong and never hot enough.
It's organized chaos. Controlled creativity. Mine.
Maya is already at her desk near the entrance—my assistant, a twenty-six-year-old with a degree from Parsons and enough organizational skills to keep this entire operation running smoothly. She glances up as I enter, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, tablet already in hand.
"Morning, Win. Coffee's fresh. Schedulewise, you have the Chen kickoff at ten, fabric samples arriving at eleven-thirty, and the Williamsburg loft clients are coming in at two for schematic design review."
I drop my bag in my office, grab the coffee she's already poured—black, no sugar, exactly how I take it—and scan the schedule she's pulled up on her tablet.
"The Chen meeting is here or at their penthouse?"
"Here. They want to see material options in person. I've pulled samples based on the palette you specified—warm grays, taupes, the ivory you liked from that last stone shipment."
"Perfect. What about the millwork drawings for the master suite built-ins?"
"On your desk. Came in from the fabricator Friday afternoon. I flagged two details that need your approval before they go into production."
This is why I hired Maya. She anticipates, executes, and never needs me to explain twice.
"You're a miracle worker."
"I'm well paid. There's a difference." She grins.
"Also, Architectural Digest called again. They want to feature the West Village brownstone restoration in their November issue. I told them you'd call back before end of day."
Architectural Digest. Six months ago, that would've made me scream. Now it's just another item on the list, another milestone that proves Winter Hayes Design has arrived.
"I'll call them after the Chen meeting. Anything else?"