Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Winter
Iarrive at my design studio at eight-thirty Monday morning with coffee from the café downstairs and a mental list of everything that needs to happen today.
Maya is already at her desk when I walk in, her own coffee in hand, laptop open, calendar pulled up on the screen.
"Morning," she says without looking up.
"Your nine-thirty is confirmed. Williamsburg clients want to finalize the walk-through schedule. 10am is the new Upper West Side inquiry—they're looking at a full gut renovation, budget is flexible. And you have a call at eleven with your realtor."
I set my coffee on my desk and pull out my laptop.
"Did the fabric samples arrive for the Sterling project?"
"Friday afternoon. I signed for them and put them in your office. Also, Knox Sterling's assistant Marcus called. Mr. Sterling is back from Dallas and wants to schedule a catch-up meeting this week."
Something in my chest tightens at Knox's name, which is ridiculous. He's a client. We've been working together for three weeks. The fact that I haven't seen him in person for the past week while he's been in Dallas shouldn't matter.
It doesn't matter.
"Tell Marcus I'm available Wednesday morning," I say, opening my laptop and pulling up the day's schedule.
“11 AM at Sterling Luxury works."
Maya makes a note.
"Will do. Your nine-thirty just texted—they're running five minutes early. Should I send them up or have them wait?"
I glance at my watch: 9:20.
"Send them up. I'm ready."
The Williamsburg clients arrive three minutes later—a young couple in their early thirties who bought a loft in a converted warehouse and hired me six months ago to transform it from industrial shell into livable luxury. The project is ninety percent complete, and they're thrilled with the results.
We spend thirty minutes reviewing the final walk-through schedule, discussing the last furniture deliveries, and confirming the installation timeline for the custom lighting fixtures. They leave happy, and I have exactly two minutes before my 10 AM arrives.
The Upper West Side clients are older, more established.
They bought a pre-war apartment that hasn't been updated since the 1980s and want a complete renovation.
Modern kitchen, updated bathrooms, new floors, the works.
Budget is two million, timeline is flexible, and they've already seen my portfolio and want to move forward.
We discuss their vision, their lifestyle, their must-haves versus nice-to-haves. I take notes, ask questions, and by the time they leave at ten-forty-five, I have a clear sense of the project scope.
Maya appears in my doorway as I'm reviewing my notes.
"Your realtor is calling in fifteen minutes. Do you want me to hold calls?"
"Yes. And can you pull the Sterling fabric samples? I need to review them after this call."
"Already on your desk."
"You're the best."
Maya smiles. "I know."
At exactly eleven, my phone rings. I answer on the second ring.
"Winter, hi. It's Diane from Manhattan Residential."
"Hi, Diane. Thanks for calling."
"Of course. So I've been looking at properties that match your criteria—Greenwich Village, two bedrooms, move-in ready, good natural light. I have three showings lined up for tomorrow if you're available. Can you make 2PM?"
I pull up my calendar on my laptop. Tomorrow is Tuesday. I have the Sterling project team meeting at Sterling Luxury in the morning, then nothing until a vendor call at four.
“2PM works. Send me the addresses."
"Perfect. I'll email you the details within the hour. All three are in your preferred neighborhood, all have the light and space you're looking for. One is a walk-up, the other two have elevators."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."
We hang up, and I sit back in my chair, staring at my laptop screen.
Apartment hunting. I've been living in a hotel in the Financial District for three weeks now, and while the hotel is fine—comfortable, clean, functional—it's not home. I need my own space. Need to stop living out of a suitcase and start rebuilding the life I walked away from when I left Rowan.
My phone buzzes with a text. Unknown number.
I open it.
Unknown: I miss you. Please call me.
Rowan.
I delete the text and block the number. That's the fourth number I've blocked this month. He keeps finding new ones. I set my phone face-down on my desk and take a breath.
I haven't seen Rowan in three weeks. Haven't spoken to him in three weeks. The last time was the night I left, and I have no intention of breaking that streak now.
My email pings. Message from Marcus at Sterling Luxury:
Subject: Meeting Confirmation - Wednesday 11 AM
Ms. Hayes,
Mr. Sterling is available Wednesday at 11 AM in his office. He'd like to review progress on all three units and discuss timeline for the next phase. Please bring updated renderings and material selections.
Best,
Marcus
I type a quick response confirming the meeting, then pull up the project files for Sterling Tower.
I haven't seen Knox in a week. We had two video check-ins while he was in Dallas—brief, professional, focused entirely on project milestones and budget updates.
No charged moments through a screen. No proximity.
No awareness of the way his hands move when he gestures or the way he listens with complete focus.
Just business. Which is exactly what it should be.
I tell myself I don't miss seeing him in person. Don't miss the eleven AM meetings in his office or mine, don't miss standing close enough to catch his cologne, don't miss the way he challenges my design choices and trusts my expertise in equal measure.
I'm lying to myself. But I'm getting very good at it.
Maya knocks on my doorframe.
"Sterling fabric samples are on your desk. Also, lunch?"
I glance at my watch: 11:45.
"I'll grab something later. I need to review these samples and prep for tomorrow's apartment showings."
Maya gives me a look. "You need to eat."
"I will. Later."
She doesn't look convinced but doesn't push.
"Let me know if you need anything."
She leaves, and I'm alone with my laptop, my project files, and the fabric samples waiting on my desk.
Minutes later, there's a knock on my office door.
Maya appears holding a large bouquet of flowers. Expensive roses, clearly from a high-end florist, arranged in a crystal vase.
"These just arrived," she says, setting them on the corner of my desk.
I know before I even reach for the card. I open the small envelope tucked between the stems.
I'm sorry. Please talk to me.
- R
Third bouquet this month. I set the card down and look at Maya.
"Take these. Put them in the break room or take them home. I don't care which."
Maya picks up the vase.
"You sure? They're beautiful."
"I'm sure."
She knows better than to ask questions. She just nods and leaves with the flowers. I turn back to my laptop, jaw tight.
Rowan keeps finding ways. Flowers delivered to my studio.
Messages relayed through mutual acquaintances who don't know we're done.
I've blocked four of his phone numbers. He keeps getting new ones.
I'm done engaging. Done responding. Done giving him any opening to think there's a conversation to be had.
My phone buzzes on my desk. Text from Marcus.
Marcus: Mr. Sterling is back from Dallas. He'd like to meet for lunch today if you're available. 1 PM in Tribeca.
I stare at the message.
Lunch. Not a scheduled check-in. Not a project review meeting at his office.
Lunch.
I type back:
Winter: Is there an issue with the project?
Marcus: No issues. He'd just like to meet. The restaurant is two blocks from the site. Casual.
I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Then I type:
Winter: Ok. What's the address?
Marcus sends the restaurant details immediately.
I check my calendar. Nothing until the realtor call at two tomorrow. The afternoon is clear.
Winter: I'll be there.
Marcus: Perfect. I'll confirm with Mr. Sterling.
At 12:45, I tell Maya to hold my calls until this afternoon and head out.
The car service takes ten minutes to get from my studio to Tribeca.
I spend the ride reviewing project notes on my tablet, trying to focus on millwork specifications and furniture sourcing timelines instead of the fact that Knox asked me to lunch instead of scheduling a standard office meeting.
I fail at both.
The car pulls up to a small restaurant tucked into a quiet street two blocks from the Sterling Tower site. Upscale, understated, the kind of place that doesn't need a sign because the right people already know it's there.
I take a breath and go in. The hostess greets me with a professional smile.
"Ms. Hayes? Mr. Sterling is expecting you."
She leads me to a corner table away from the main dining area. Private, quiet.
Knox is already there. He stands when I approach.
He looks good. Dark suit, navy tie, crisp white shirt. His salt-and-pepper hair is slightly tousled in a way that shouldn't be attractive but is. The week in Dallas gave him a slight tan that makes his blue eyes even more striking.
"Winter. Thank you for coming."
I set my bag on the chair. "Sure. Though I'm curious why we're meeting for lunch when we could have met at the site or your office. Or even on Zoom."
Knox pulls out my chair. "This works better for my schedule today."
I sit, annoyed but not showing it. He takes his seat across from me.
The waiter appears almost immediately with menus. Knox gestures to the table.
"I prefer this spot. Quieter."
"Very thoughtful." There's an edge to my voice I don't bother hiding.
We review the menus in silence. The waiter returns.
"I'll have the Nicoise salad," I say.
Knox orders the steak frites, then looks at me.
"Wine?"
"No, thank you. Middle of the work day."
He nods to the waiter. "Sparkling water for both of us."
The waiter leaves, and silence settles between us.
I pull out my tablet. "I have project updates if you'd like to—"
"I stopped by the site this morning," Knox interrupts.