Chapter 2 #3
"Your ten o'clock pushed to ten-thirty. Traffic from Connecticut. And you got a delivery this morning." She gestures toward my office.
"Flowers. No card."
I follow her gesture through the glass wall of my office. On my desk, next to the millwork drawings, sits an enormous arrangement—peonies, my favorite, pale pink and cream, overflowing from a simple glass vase.
My stomach tightens. Rowan knows I love peonies. He sent them after standing me up at dinner a few weeks ago, his apology-without-apology gesture that's supposed to make everything okay.
I set my coffee down, approach the arrangement like it might detonate. Pull the small envelope tucked between blooms.
No card inside. Just the florist's compliments slip.
"They didn't say who sent them?" I ask Maya through the open door.
"No. Delivery guy just said they were for you. Premium rush order."
Premium rush. Rowan's style—last minute, expensive, meant to impress. I should be touched. Should feel appreciated, loved, thought of. Instead, I feel tired.
"They're beautiful," Maya offers.
"Someone's got good taste."
"Yeah," I say, touching one of the blooms. Soft, perfect, probably cost two hundred dollars.
"Someone does."
I leave them on my desk and turn my attention to the millwork drawings.
The fabricator has done excellent work—custom cabinetry for the Chen penthouse master suite, floating shelves with integrated lighting, a built-in vanity with hidden storage.
I mark my approvals, flag one dimension that needs adjustment, and send the annotated drawings back to Maya for forwarding.
By nine-fifteen, the studio is fully alive.
My three designers arrive in quick succession—James, who specializes in spatial planning; Claudia, whose eye for color is better than mine; and Liam, who handles all our 3D renderings and client visualizations.
They gather at the farmhouse table with coffee and laptops, discussing the Williamsburg loft project in the shorthand we've developed over years of working together.
This is the rhythm I love. The hum of creativity, the solving of spatial puzzles, the transformation of empty rooms into places where people will live their lives. This is where I'm not performing. This is where I'm just... me.
"Win, Chen materials are staged in Conference Room A," Maya calls across the studio.
"Samples look gorgeous. You're going to love the stone options."
I head to the smaller conference room—the one with the big table and better light for reviewing materials.
Maya's laid everything out with her usual precision: stone samples arranged by tone, fabric swatches grouped by texture, paint chips organized in gradient progressions.
I run my hands over each material, testing how they feel together, how the light hits different surfaces, imagining them in the Chens' penthouse with its southern exposure and Central Park views.
The taupe limestone is perfect—warm without being yellow, substantial without feeling heavy.
I pair it with a silk-wool blend in soft gray for the upholstered pieces, add texture with a nubby linen in cream.
The palette is coming together, sophisticated and livable, exactly what the Chens asked for.
My phone buzzes. Rowan.
Rowan: Back in the city. Crazy day ahead. Dinner tonight?
I stare at the text. Last night I had space to breathe. Tonight, back to our apartment, back to proximity, back to pretending everything is fine.
Winter: Long day here too. What time were you thinking?
Rowan: 8? That Italian place you like?
The same restaurant where he stood me up last time. Does he even remember that?
Winter: Sure. See you there.
I pocket my phone and return to the materials.
Mr. and Mrs. Chen arrive at ten-thirty, impeccably dressed and genuinely excited to see the design direction.
I walk them through the schematic plans, show them the material palette, explain my vision for creating zones within the open floor plan—sleeping area, sitting area, a small library nook by the windows where morning light will be ideal for reading.
Mrs. Chen runs her hand over the limestone sample.
"This is exactly what I imagined. Warm but not too warm. Sophisticated."
"It will age beautifully," I tell her.
"And the variation in the stone means each piece is unique. Your space will feel custom, not cookie-cutter."
"And the timeline?" Mr. Chen asks, always the practical one.
"You mentioned six months from contract to installation?"
"Six to nine months for a project this scale.
We're currently in the schematic design phase—refining the overall vision.
Next is design development, where we'll finalize every detail, every specification.
Then procurement, fabrication, installation.
I'll have a detailed timeline to you by end of week. "
They exchange a glance, that wordless communication of couples who've been together long enough to read each other.
"We're very pleased," Mrs. Chen says.
"This is exactly why we hired you."
After they leave, Maya appears with a bottle of sparkling water and a knowing smile.
"Another satisfied client. You're on fire lately."
"Just doing what I love."
"Three and a half million dollars' worth of what you love." She hands me the water.
"AD is still waiting for your call, by the way."
Right. Architectural Digest.
I make the call, spend twenty minutes discussing the West Village project with their editorial team, agree to a photographer coming to shoot the space next month. When I hang up, Maya is grinning.
"November issue. Cover potential, they said."
"They said maybe cover potential," I reply correcting her statement.
"Still counts."
It does count. Five years ago, I was sleeping on Amy's couch and taking design jobs that paid in exposure. Now I’m on a phone call with Architectural Digest and other publications.
I built this. Every bit of it. No family connections, no inherited wealth, just work and vision and refusing to quit when it got hard.
My phone buzzes again. I glance down, expecting Rowan. It's Kate.
Kate: How's Monday treating you?
Winter: Busy. Good busy. Chen meeting went great.
Kate: Told you. You're brilliant at what you do.
Winter: Thanks. Dinner with Rowan tonight.
Kate: You okay with that?
Am I?
Winter: I'm fine. Just dinner.
Kate: Call me after if you need to.
Winter: I will.
I set my phone down and get back into my rhythm.
The afternoon passes in a blur of productivity.
The Williamsburg clients love the schematic designs.
The fabric samples arrive and they're perfect—exactly the texture and weight I specified.
I approve invoices, review timelines, spend an hour on the phone with a stone supplier negotiating better pricing for the Chen project.
By six-thirty, the studio is quiet again. My team has left for the day. Maya shut down her station at six, reminding me about tomorrow's schedule before heading out. I'm alone with my laptop, reviewing material specifications for the tenth time because I can't quite make myself leave.
My phone alarm goes off—seven o'clock. If I'm meeting Rowan at eight, I need to leave now.
I shut down my laptop, grab my bag, take one last look around the studio.
Tomorrow I'll be back here, in the space where I know exactly who I am.
I lock the door behind me and step into the humid summer evening, heading toward the subway that will take me home.
The Sterling Building occupies a prime corner of Gramercy Park, one of those pre-war structures that was gutted and renovated into luxury condominiums about a decade ago.
Rowan's family owns it—one of Conrad Sterling's first major residential developments in Manhattan, the one that proved Sterling Commercial could compete in the high-end market.
The ground level is all gleaming storefronts: a gourmet grocery that stocks imported olive oil and fresh truffles, a FedEx for the residents who can't be bothered with post offices, a spa that offers four-hundred-dollar facials and sound bath therapy.
There's a doorman who knows everyone by name, a concierge desk that can procure anything from theater tickets to a private jet, and a residents-only gym on the second floor with equipment that looks like it belongs in a spaceship.
I've lived here for a year. Exactly a year—Rowan asked me to move in last July, framing it as the logical next step after eighteen months of dating. At the time, it felt significant. A commitment. A future being built together.
I gave up my Greenwich Village apartment for this—a fifth-floor walk-up with a clawfoot tub and a fire escape where I'd drink morning coffee and watch the neighborhood wake up.
I loved that apartment. The creaky floors, the radiator that clanged all winter, the bodega downstairs that knew my order.
It was mine in a way this place has never quite managed to be.
The elevator requires a key for the penthouse. I turn it, ride up in silence, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls. I look tired. Professional, polished, put-together, but tired underneath it all.
The doors open directly into the foyer—one of those architectural details that announces wealth before you even step inside.
Marble floors in a herringbone pattern, a console table that probably cost more than my first car, fresh flowers that a service replaces twice a week.
The space opens into a living area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, furniture in shades of gray and cream that Rowan selected before I moved in.
I've added touches. The throw pillows in deep blue silk, the vintage art deco bar cart I found at an estate sale, the coffee table books on design and architecture.
But the bones of this place—the leather sofa, the glass dining table, the modern minimalism that feels more like a showroom than a home—that's all Rowan.