Chapter 2 #4
Three bedrooms, three and a half baths, a chef's kitchen with appliances I barely use because we eat out more often than not.
The master suite has a walk-in closet the size of my old studio apartment and a bathroom with heated floors and a shower that has six different settings.
There's a home office where Rowan works late into the night, a guest room that's never had a guest, and a third bedroom I claimed as a design studio but rarely use because I'd rather be at my actual studio in Tribeca.
It's beautiful. It's luxurious. It has everything anyone could possibly need. It just never felt like mine.
I drop my bag on the console table and kick off my heels, leaving them by the door.
My feet ache—I've been in those shoes since eight-thirty this morning.
I pad across the cool marble into the living area, heading for the kitchen to pour wine or water or something to mark the transition from work to whatever this is.
My phone buzzes. Rowan.
Rowan: Meeting with investors running late. Going to have to raincheck dinner. Sorry.
I stare at the text. The same restaurant. The second time he's canceled.
Winter: Okay. No problem.
Rowan: Did you get the flowers?
Winter: Yes. They're beautiful. Thank you.
Rowan: Wanted to do something nice. Make up for last week.
Flowers as an apology. Flowers instead of showing up. Flowers because they're easier than actual presence.
Winter: I appreciate it.
Rowan: I'll make it up to you. Promise. This deal is just crazy right now.
Winter: I understand. See you when you get home.
Rowan: Probably late. Don't wait up.
I set my phone on the counter and stand there in the quiet apartment, looking out at the view.
Gramercy Park spreads below, that exclusive private park that only residents with keys can access.
The trees are full and green with summer, the paths lit by vintage lampposts that give everything a warm glow as evening settles in.
It's the kind of view people pay millions for. The kind of view that's supposed to make you feel like you've made it.
I feel nothing.
The apartment is silent except for the ambient hum of the air conditioning, the distant sound of traffic muffled by triple-pane windows.
I open the Sub-Zero refrigerator—mostly empty except for takeout containers, a bottle of Sancerre, some overpriced cheese I bought last week and forgot about.
Pull out the wine, pour myself a generous glass.
The living room furniture faces the windows, positioned to maximize the view.
I sink into the leather sofa—Rowan's choice, butter-soft and expensive and completely uncomfortable for actually relaxing.
The throw pillows I added help, the blue silk ones that at least bring some warmth to all this gray.
I tried when I first moved in. Suggested we repaint the walls, maybe add some color, bring in pieces with more character. Rowan said he liked it the way it was, that his designer had created the perfect modern aesthetic.
"We don't want it to look cluttered," he'd said. As if my design sense—the thing I do professionally, the thing I'm building a career on—would make his apartment look cluttered.
So I added what I could. The pillows. The bar cart. A few art pieces he tolerated. Small touches that whisper "Winter lives here too" without shouting it.
The rest is his. His furniture, his aesthetic, his space that I've been allowed into.
I pull out my phone, consider texting Kate or Amy. But what would I say?
Rowan canceled dinner again.
I'm sitting alone in an apartment that doesn't feel like home.
I'm drinking wine and staring at a multimillion-dollar view and feeling absolutely nothing.
They'd tell me what they already said yesterday; that I deserve better. That I'm making excuses. That I have blind spots when it comes to him.
They're right. I know they're right. But knowing and doing are different things.
I finish my wine, pour another glass. The sun is setting now, painting the park in shades of amber and rose.
I should eat something—there's a gourmet grocery downstairs that would deliver anything I wanted within twenty minutes.
I should change out of my work clothes, take a shower, do something productive with this evening I suddenly have to myself.
I finish my second glass of wine and head to the bedroom.
The master suite is as impersonal as the rest of the apartment—king bed with hotel-quality linens in white and gray, matching nightstands, a bench at the foot of the bed that's purely decorative because neither of us ever sits on it.
My side of the walk-in closet is organized by color and season, Rowan's side is all suits and dress shirts arranged with precision that suggests his housekeeper maintains it.
I change out of my work clothes into leggings and an oversized sweater, something comfortable that doesn't require performance. Wash my face, tie up my hair, the routine motions that mark the end of one day and the beginning of evening.
The apartment is still silent. Still empty. I check my phone. No new texts from Rowan. It's eight-thirty—he said late, which probably means ten or eleven, maybe later.
I could go back to the living room, find something to watch on the massive TV Rowan insisted we needed. I could order food, open another bottle of wine, settle in for an evening alone.
Instead, I head to the third bedroom—the one I claimed as a design studio.
It's the smallest of the three, but it has good light and I've filled it with the things that couldn't fit anywhere else in Rowan's carefully curated aesthetic.
My drafting table from college, a vintage dress form I found at a flea market, shelves lined with design books and material samples.
A corkboard covered in inspiration images and fabric swatches and paint chips that don't match anything in the rest of the apartment.
This room is mine. Actually mine.
I sit at the drafting table and pull out my tablet, opening the file for the Chen project. Might as well be productive with this unexpected free evening. I review the material selections from this morning's meeting, make notes on adjustments, and sketch some preliminary furniture layouts.
Hours pass. I lose myself in the work, in the comfortable focus of designing, problem-solving, creating. By the time I check my phone again, it's past eleven.
One new text from Rowan, sent forty minutes ago.
Rowan: Heading home now. Long day.
I don't respond. He'll see I'm awake when he gets here.
I save my work, shut down the tablet, and head back to the living room. Pour myself water from the filtered tap, settle onto the sofa with my phone.
The elevator chimes—someone's coming up. A moment later, the private entrance opens and Rowan walks in.
He looks exhausted. Tie loosened, jacket over his arm, hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. He sees me on the sofa and offers a tired smile.
"Hey. You waited up."
"Couldn't sleep."
He drops his jacket over the back of a chair, his briefcase on the floor. Crosses to me, leans down to kiss my forehead. He smells like scotch and cologne and the city.
"Sorry about dinner. This deal is insane right now."
"It's okay. I got work done."
"Of course you did." He straightens, loosening his tie completely. "I'm beat. Long day doesn't even cover it."
"The investors meeting went that late?"
"Meeting, then drinks after. Davidson wanted to go over some details." He heads toward the bedroom.
"I'm going to shower and crash. You coming to bed?"
I should. It's late, and tomorrow is another full day at the studio. But sitting here in the quiet, working on my projects, having the space to myself—it felt good.
"In a bit," I say. "Going to finish some things."
"Don't stay up too late." He's already halfway down the hall, phone in hand, checking something.
I watch him disappear into the bedroom, hear the shower start a moment later. I set the phone down and lean back into the uncomfortable sofa, staring at the view of Gramercy Park lit up in the darkness.
The shower shuts off. I hear Rowan moving around the bedroom, getting ready for bed. I stay on the sofa, in the quiet. I don't know what that says about me—the fact that I'm more comfortable sitting here alone than I am joining him in our bedroom.