Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Knox
I'm thinking about the fact that in thirteen minutes, Winter Hayes will walk through my door.
The Sterling Tower presentation folder sits on my desk—architectural renderings, floor plans, market analysis, budget projections.
I've reviewed it three times this morning.
Everything is in order. This should be straightforward: present project, discuss scope and timeline, gauge interest, negotiate terms.
Except my jaw is tight, and I've checked my watch four times in the past ten minutes.
I treat billion-dollar investor meetings with less internal tension than this.
The summer afternoon light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the conference table I had Marcus set up with the larger renderings. Everything is staged precisely. Professional. Controlled.
I turn away from the window, adjust my tie—a habit I don't usually have—and force myself to sit at my desk. Pull up emails I'm not actually reading.
At 1:52, Marcus appears in my doorway.
"Ms. Hayes is here."
My pulse does something I refuse to acknowledge.
I close my laptop with deliberate calm.
"Send her in."
Marcus nods and disappears.
I stand, button my suit jacket, and move around my desk to the open space near the conference table. Professional positioning. Not behind the desk—too formal, too much of a power play. But not too casual either.
The door opens, as she steps into my office. For a moment—brief, charged—we just look at each other.
There's something almost hostile in her expression initially. An enemies glare, sharp and assessing, like she's walked into this meeting ready for a fight. Her blue eyes are cool, guarded, challenging. But then our gazes lock, and something shifts.
The hostility softens. Not disappearing, but... mellowing into something else. Curiosity, maybe. Wariness mixed with interest.
She's stunning.
I knew that already—I've seen her at family events, noticed her across crowded rooms. But seeing her here, in my office, in the afternoon light with nothing between us but air and intention, is different.
Black pencil skirt that ends just below the knee. Cream silk blouse, perfectly tailored. Black Louboutin heels that bring her closer to my eye level than I expected. A leather portfolio tucked under one arm. Blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail, sleek and professional.
Professional armor. Every detail calculated.
Her blue eyes meet mine—direct, unflinching, assessing me the same way I'm assessing her.
I realize I'm staring.
Force myself to move, to extend my hand.
"Ms. Hayes. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today."
She crosses the space between us—measured steps, confident despite the slight hesitation I catch in her shoulders—and takes my hand.
The handshake is firm. Brief.
But the contact registers.
Warmth. A brief electric moment that travels up my arm and settles somewhere in my chest.
She pulls back slightly faster than necessary.
She felt it too.
"Mr. Sterling." Her voice is professional, cool.
"Your assistant was... persuasive."
"Marcus is good at his job."
"Clearly."
We're still standing too close. I step back, gesture to the chairs near my desk.
"Please. Sit."
She moves to the chair but doesn't fully settle into it. Perches on the edge instead, portfolio on her lap, posture perfect. Ready to leave at any moment if this meeting goes wrong.
I take the chair across from her—not behind my desk, but close enough to maintain formality.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I'm staring at her again. Longer than I should. Cataloging details I have no business noticing: the way the afternoon light catches her hair, the exact shade of blue in her eyes, the curve of her collarbone where the silk blouse meets skin.
She stares back. Unflinching.
Then she adjusts in her seat, breaks the moment with a slight shift of her shoulders.
"Well. What is this meeting about exactly?"
Right. Business. Focus.
I lean forward slightly, elbows on knees, hands clasped.
"I have a project. I think you're the right designer for it."
"You could've sent the specs through your assistant. Or scheduled a call."
"I prefer to discuss significant projects in person."
"Significant." She tilts her head slightly. "Define that."
I stand, move to my desk, and pick up the presentation folder.
Return to where she's sitting and hand it to her.
She takes it, opens it carefully. The first page is a rendering of Sterling Tower—the full building in context, thirty stories of glass and steel rising in Tribeca, the Manhattan skyline behind it, the Hudson River visible in the background.
Winter studies it. Silent. Her expression shifts from guarded to engaged—this is her element, and she can't hide the professional interest even if she wanted to.
I watch her eyes move across the rendering, taking in details.
"Sterling Tower," I say, keeping my voice even. "Thirty stories, ultra-luxury residential in Tribeca. Fifty-six residences across twenty-eight residential floors. Two full amenity floors. Penthouses occupy the top three floors."
She flips to the next page—floor plans, unit layouts, the specifications that show exactly what I'm building.
"I need full interior design for three model units," I continue.
"A two-thousand-square-foot two-bedroom, a thirty-five-hundred-square-foot three-bedroom, and the fifty-five-hundred-square-foot penthouse."
Winter looks up. "Timeline?"
"Six months from contract signing to installation complete."
Her eyebrows go up slightly. "That's tight."
"It's necessary. Investor tours are scheduled for December. The units need to be fully designed, furnished, and staged by then."
She nods slowly, turns back to the folder. Flips through the market analysis, the budget projections, the renderings of different floors.
"Budget?" she asks, not looking up.
"Eight to ten million for all three units. Full design, custom furniture, art acquisition, staging, custom millwork. Whatever you need to execute the vision."
Her eyes flick up to mine. Quick. Sharp.
That's a substantial budget. We both know it.
"That's..." She pauses, choosing words carefully.
"Generous."
"Market appropriate for this level of luxury."
She closes the folder slowly, sets it on her lap, and looks at me directly.
"This is incredible," she says. Her voice is steady, professional, but I can hear the undercurrent—genuine appreciation for the scope, the opportunity.
"Which makes me wonder why you're offering it to me."
"You're the best fit for the project."
"I'm also in a relationship with your brother."
Direct. Unflinching.
I don't look away. "I'm aware."
"And that doesn't concern you?"
"Should it?" I keep my voice level.
"This is business."
Her jaw tightens slightly.
"This is a major conflict with Sterling Commercial. I've done projects for your family's firm. Your parents know my work."
"That sounds like Rowan's problem, not yours."
"Easy for you to say."
I lean back in my chair, study her. She's not backing down. Good.
"I'm offering you eight to ten million dollars for Manhattan's most high-profile residential project this year," I say.
"Three units that will be featured in every major design publication. Portfolio work that will elevate Winter Hayes Design to a different tier entirely."
She winces slightly. Because I'm right, and she knows it.
"That's compelling," she admits.
"It's meant to be."
I pause, let the silence stretch for a beat, then add with deliberate casualness:
"I assumed you were a businesswoman, Ms. Hayes. Was I wrong?"
Her eyes flash—a spark of something that looks like challenge, maybe anger, maybe interest. All three.
"Careful, Mr. Sterling." Her voice is soft, controlled, but there's steel underneath.
"That sounded like a challenge."
I almost smile. Almost.
"Did it? I thought it sounded like an observation."
For a moment, we just look at each other. The air in the office feels charged. Thicker than it should be. Then Winter sets the folder on the small table between us and stands.
"May I see the larger renderings?"
She's shifting the conversation. Smart. I stand as well, gesture toward the conference table where Marcus staged the full presentation.
"Of course."
We move to the table—me on one side, Winter on the other, the architectural plans spread between us like a buffer. I point to the rendering of the penthouse master suite.
"Twelve hundred square feet. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. East and south exposure."
Winter leans over the plans, her fingers tracing the outline of the space. She's fully engaged now—professional mode activated, the wariness from earlier sublimating into focus.
"What do you see?" I ask.
She doesn't answer immediately. Studies the plans, her brow furrowing slightly in concentration.
"Potential," she says finally.
"Challenge. A space this large can feel cavernous if not handled correctly."
"How would you solve that?"
Her finger moves across the rendering, gesturing at invisible divisions.
"Zones. Different lighting for different purposes. Texture variation to create visual interest. Micro-environments within the macro-space."
She's animated now. Her hands move as she talks, sketching invisible furniture layouts, describing layered lighting concepts, explaining how she'd use custom pieces to create intimacy in a space designed for grandeur.
Mid-century contemporary aesthetic. Clean lines. Warm materials. Statement pieces balanced with livable comfort.
I watch her. She’s confident. Creative. Commanding. It's... captivating.
"That's exactly what I want," I say when she pauses.
She looks up, meets my eyes across the table.
"You have a clear vision for this project."
"I always do. I need a designer who can execute it without losing the soul of the space."
"Soul." A slight smile touches her lips—the first one I've seen from her today.
"Interesting word for a developer to use."
"Buildings are where people live their lives," I say.