Page 10 of The Silver Fox Brother

Winter: Yeah. Just ready for this to be over.

Kate: Few more hours. Then mimosas and honesty.

Winter: Can't wait.

I pocket my phone and turn back to the party, champagne in hand, smile fixed in place, performing my way through another Sterling family evening.

The crowd begins to shift, a collective movement toward the main tent like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Servers appear at the edges of the lawn, gently herding guests with the kind of polite insistence that comes from experience managing the wealthy. The sun has dropped lower, painting everything in shades of amber and rose gold, and the string lights overhead have taken on a new prominence against the darkening sky.

I follow the flow, champagne glass still in hand though I've lost track of how many I've had. Three? Four? Enough that the edges of the evening have softened slightly, enough that the performance doesn't require quite as much effort.

The main tent is even more impressive inside—round tables dressed in cream linens, centerpieces of white roses and hydrangeas that probably cost more than my monthly studio rent, place settings with china that looks antique and probably is. At the far end, a small stage has been set up with a podium and microphone. This isn't just a party. It's a production.

I scan the crowd for Rowan, find him near the front with his father and a cluster of men in expensive suits. He catches my eye, gestures for me to join him. I make my way through the crowd, excusing myself past women in designer dresses and men who smell like old money and newer cologne.

"There she is." Rowan's arm snakes around my waist as I reach him, pulling me against his side.

"Gentlemen, this is Winter Hayes. My girlfriend."

Not "Winter Hayes, interior designer." Not"Winter, who just landed a three-and-a-half-million-dollar project."Just girlfriend. The qualifier that defines me in this space.

I smile at the men—Daniel, I think, and two others whose names I don't catch—and shake hands when offered. They make polite conversation, asking where I'm from (Chicago), what I do (interior design), and how I met Rowan (charity gala). Their interest is perfunctory, the kind of social lubrication that keeps these events running smoothly. I'm an accessory being examined, assessed for suitability.

Conrad Sterling approaches the podium, and the tent quiets. He's seventy-three but carries himself like a man twenty years younger—tall, broad-shouldered, with silver hair that somehow makes him look more distinguished rather than old. His presence commands attention without demanding it. This is a man who's spent fifty years building an empire and knows exactly what he's worth.

"Thank you all for coming," he begins, his voice carrying easily through the tent.

"Diane and I are thrilled to have you all here to celebrate another successful year for Sterling Commercial, and more importantly, to share some exciting news about our future."

Rowan's grip on my waist tightens. I can feel the tension in his body, the anticipation. This is what he's been waiting for all evening—his father's public acknowledgment, the validation he's been chasing his entire life.

"As many of you know, Sterling Commercial has been evaluating expansion opportunities in Brooklyn," Conrad continues.

"The borough has undergone remarkable transformation over the past decade, and we've been searching for the right project to establish our presence there."

He pauses for effect. The crowd leans in.

"I'm pleased to announce that we've secured final approvals for Sterling Heights—a mixed-use development in Downtown Brooklyn that will include two hundred residential units, street-level retail, and community spaces. It's our largest project to date, with a total investment of over four hundred million dollars."

Applause erupts through the tent. Rowan's face is a study in controlled pride—he's beaming but trying not to look too eager, trying to maintain the polish that his father values.

"This project represents the future of Sterling Commercial," Conrad says, his eyes finding Rowan in the crowd.

"And I'm proud to say that my son Rowan has been instrumental in bringing it to fruition. His leadership, his vision, and his dedication to our family's legacy have made this possible."

More applause. Rowan's grip on me is almost painful now, but he's smiling, nodding at the congratulations being thrown his way. This is it. This is the moment he's been working toward—his father's approval, publicly given, impossible to take back.

"So please join me in celebrating not just this project, but the next generation of Sterling leadership." Conrad raises his glass.

"To Sterling Heights. To family. To the future."

"To the future," the crowd echoes, glasses raised.

I raise mine, drink, watch Rowan's face as people crowd around him with congratulations. He's radiant in a way I rarely see—genuinely happy, validated, seen by the person whose opinion matters most to him. For a moment, I remember why I fell for him. He's charming when he wants to be, magnetic when he has something to prove.

But then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, still smiling, still accepting handshakes and back-slaps. Glances at the screen. The smile flickers, just for a second, before he pockets it and returns his attention to the man currently congratulating him.

I saw it though. That flicker. That momentary distraction.