Chapter 3 #5
Dark wood paneling, leather furniture worn soft by decades of use, ambient lighting that's dim enough to feel intimate without being oppressive. The bar stocks bottles you won't find anywhere else, and the staff moves like ghosts—present when needed, invisible otherwise.
I arrive at 7 on the dot. Victor drops me at the entrance, and I take the private elevator to the top floor.
James is already there, seated in one of the corner alcoves we've claimed as our unofficial territory over the years.
He's in his early forties, built like someone who used to row crew and now runs five miles every morning before the rest of the city wakes up.
He owns a brokerage firm in the Financial District, handles wealth management for people who have more money than they know what to do with.
We've known each other since Yale. Business school, late nights in the library, the kind of friendship that forms when you're both ambitious enough to kill yourselves over case studies and still find time to drink too much on weekends.
"There he is," James says, standing to shake my hand.
"Thought maybe you'd bail."
"When have I ever bailed?"
"There's a first time for everything." He gestures to the chair across from him.
"Sit. I already ordered your usual."
I drop into the leather chair—deep, comfortable, the kind of furniture that costs a fortune because it lasts forever. A server appears within seconds, sets a crystal tumbler in front of me. Eighteen-year Macallan, neat, exactly the way I take it.
"Thanks," I tell the server.
She nods and disappears. James raises his glass.
"To surviving another week in this goddamn city."
I raise mine. "To surviving."
We drink. The scotch is smooth, expensive, worth every penny of the two hundred dollars this club charges per pour.
"Fletcher's running late," James says, checking his phone.
"Sarah had a doctor's appointment. He's on his way."
"How's she doing?"
"Six months pregnant and, according to Fletcher, slowly losing her mind over nursery color schemes." James grins.
"Last I heard, it was down to 'Gentle Cream' or 'Whisper White,' which as far as I can tell are the exact same color."
"They probably are."
"That's what I said. But apparently there's a difference, and it matters deeply." He takes another drink.
"How about you? How's the Sterling Tower project?"
"Moving. Complicated, but moving."
"I heard about the designer situation. Vertex bailing for Dubai."
News travels fast in our circles.
"The Design team torched the contract with zero notice. Left me scrambling to find a replacement on a six-month timeline."
James winces. "That's brutal. You find anyone yet?"
"Working on it."
He studies me for a moment, the way he does when he knows I'm not telling him everything.
"Working on it as in you have options, or working on it as in you're stalling?"
Before I can answer, Fletcher arrives.
He's slightly out of breath, jacket slung over his arm, tie loosened.
"Sorry. Traffic was insane, and Sarah needed me to—never mind. I'm here. Did I miss anything?"
"Just Knox being cryptic about his designer situation," James says.
Fletcher drops into the third chair, signals the server for his own drink.
"Oh, this should be good. Knox being cryptic usually means he's about to do something either brilliant or completely insane."
"Sometimes both," I say.
The server returns with Fletcher's scotch—he drinks the same as I do, has for years. We've had this routine down for many years now: The Henley Club, Tuesday nights when schedules allow, expensive scotch and conversations that range from business to family to everything in between.
Fletcher takes a long drink, then leans back with a satisfied sigh.
"God, I needed that. Sarah's been on me all week about baby-proofing the apartment. We don't even have a baby yet, and she's already convinced he's going to electrocute himself on outlets we haven't even installed."
"He?" James asks.
"We find out next week. But I have a feeling." Fletcher grins.
"How are your kids, by the way?"
"Exhausting. Emma just started soccer, which means every Saturday is spent on a field watching seven-year-olds chase a ball in the wrong direction. And Michael's convinced he wants to be a paleontologist, so our apartment is now filled with plastic dinosaurs."
"Sounds like hell," I say.
"It's actually pretty great." James looks at me with that expression he gets sometimes—the one that says he pities me for not having what he has.
"You should try it sometime. The whole relationship thing. Maybe even the kids thing."
"I'm good," I say.
"You're forty-seven and you haven't dated anyone seriously in what, five years?"
"Three."
"Three years," James repeats, shaking his head.
"That's depressing."
Fletcher jumps in. "Who was the last one? Alexandra? The art curator?"
"Yeah."
"What happened there?"
I shrug. "Nothing happened. We went out a few times. It didn't go anywhere."
"Because you didn't let it go anywhere," James says, pointing his glass at me.
"You do this thing where you find perfectly nice, intelligent, beautiful women, go on three dates, and then ghost them."
"I don't ghost. I'm upfront about not being interested in pursuing it further."
"Same thing."
Fletcher signals for a second round.
"To be fair, Knox is married to his work. Buildings don't require emotional availability."
"Buildings also don't keep you warm at night," James counters.
"Neither does emotional availability," I say.
They both laugh. The server returns with our second round. We're settling into the rhythm now—the comfortable back-and-forth that happens when you've known someone long enough that you don't have to perform.
Fletcher takes a drink of his fresh scotch, then looks at me.
"Alright. Enough about my impending fatherhood and James's dinosaur-obsessed kid. Let's talk about why Knox is being weird about the designer decision."
I pause mid-drink.
James leans forward, interested now.
"Oh? Knox is being weird?"
"He's being weird," Fletcher confirms.
"I asked him about it earlier today after racquetball. He said he was looking at a shortlist. But he had that expression."
"What expression?"
"The one where he's already made up his mind about something but hasn't admitted it out loud yet."
They both look at me. I set my glass down.
"I received the list from Marcus. Looked over all ten firms. Strong options across the board."
Fletcher leans forward slightly. "But?"
"But there's one I'm really considering."
"Which one?" Fletcher asks.
I take another drink, then say it.
"Winter Hayes Design Studio."
Fletcher and James exchange a glance—both of them look slightly confused, like they're searching their memory for why that name sounds familiar.
Fletcher furrows his brow.
"Why do I feel like I've heard that name before? Where have I heard that name from?"
I stay quiet, take another sip of scotch instead of answering.
The pause stretches.
Fletcher studies me.
"Is that who you're going to go for? Have you already set up an interview with her?"
I set my glass down carefully.
"There's just one little problem."
Fletcher and James both look at me, eyes narrowing slightly, waiting.
"She's my brother's girlfriend."
The silence that follows is complete. James sets his glass down slowly.
"Your brother's girlfriend. As in Rowan's girlfriend?"
"Yes."
Fletcher stares at me.
"And you're considering hiring her?"
"She's the best fit for the project."
Fletcher stares at me.
"She's also your brother's girlfriend."
"I'm aware. This is business."
James laughs—short, disbelieving.
"Knox. Your family will implode."
"Rowan will lose his mind," Fletcher adds, shaking his head.
I meet their eyes, steady.
"Rowan's opinions don't dictate my business decisions."
"Okay, but—" James stops, recalibrates.
"Have you even talked to her? Like, actually had a conversation with her?"
"A few times. At family events over the past couple years. Brief conversations. Hellos mostly."
Fletcher leans forward, his expression shifting to something more serious.
"But you noticed her."
I pick up my glass, take a drink before answering.
"She's hard not to notice."
"Define that," James says.
I consider my answer carefully.
"She's beautiful. Intelligent from the brief interactions we've had. Good at navigating my family's dynamics, which isn't easy. That's all I need to know professionally."
Fletcher raises an eyebrow.
"That's all you know about her?"
"That's all I need to know for the project."
James sits back, studying me with that look he gets when he's about to call me on something.
"Knox. If this was purely business, you would've hired someone else already. You have ten qualified firms on that list. Why her?"
I don't answer immediately.
Because they're right. And they know it.
Fletcher breaks the silence.
"Is this about Rowan? Competing with him?"
"This isn't about Rowan," I say, my voice level.
"This is about business. She's the best designer for what I'm building."
"You keep saying that," James observes.
"Because it's true."
Fletcher swirls his scotch, thinking.
"You could keep it quiet initially. Hire her, get the project moving, and by the time Rowan finds out, it's already done."
"Terrible idea," James says immediately.
"When he finds out—and he will find out—it'll be ten times worse because you hid it."
"I'm not hiding anything," I say.
"If I hire her, Rowan deals with it."
James shakes his head slowly.
"Your family gatherings are going to be fun."
"They're already not fun."
"Fair point."
Fletcher picks up his glass, looks at me over the rim.
"So you're really going to do this. Call her. Set up a meeting. Offer her the project."
"I'm considering it."
"You've already decided," he says.
"I know you. You wouldn't have brought it up if you hadn't already made up your mind."
He's not wrong.
James leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Okay. Let's say you do this. You hire her. What's the best-case scenario?"
"She takes the job. Does brilliant work. Sterling Tower's model units are exactly what they need to be. Investors are happy. The project succeeds."
"And the worst-case scenario?"
"Rowan goes ballistic, my father is displeased as usual, my mother tries to mediate, and family events and dinner invites become even more uncomfortable than they already are–or may disappear altogether."
"That's a pretty significant downside," James says.
"It's manageable."
Fletcher laughs. "Manageable. Right. Because your family dynamic is so stable to begin with."
I don't disagree with that.
We sit in silence for a moment, the ambient noise of the club around us—low conversations from other alcoves, the clink of glass, the soft jazz playing through hidden speakers.
Finally, James picks up his glass. "For what it's worth? I think you should do it."
I look at him, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You've spent all of these years building your own firm specifically so you wouldn't have to make decisions based on what your family thinks. Why stop now?"
Fletcher nods slowly. "He's right. If she's really the best designer for the project, then hire her. Let Rowan deal with his feelings."
"That's very evolved of you both," I say.
"We're trying to be supportive," James says.
"Even though we both think this is going to blow up spectacularly."
"Appreciate the vote of confidence."
Fletcher raises his glass.
"To Knox making questionable decisions that are probably brilliant but definitely complicated."
James raises his. "To family drama."
I raise mine. "To getting the job done."
We drink. The conversation shifts after that—Fletcher talks about some other family debacle, James complains about a difficult client, and I contribute where it makes sense. But my mind is already elsewhere, already moving forward to the next step.
Tomorrow morning, I'll tell Marcus to make the call and set up a meeting with Winter Hayes Design. By the time we settle the tab and head our separate ways at nine-thirty, the decision is made.
Whatever happens after that, I'll handle it the way I handle everything else: directly, without apology, and with complete focus on the end goal.
Let the complications sort themselves out.