Page 11 of The Silver Fox Brother

“M.”, probably. Texting him during his moment of triumph.

I take another drink of champagne, push the thought away. Tonight is about supporting Rowan. Tomorrow I can examine the growing pit in my stomach. Tomorrow I can ask Kate and Amy if I'm crazy for ignoring what's right in front of me.

Tonight, I perform.

The crowd begins to disperse, some heading toward the bar, others clustering in conversation groups. The formal announcement is over, but the networking continues. Rowan is immediately pulled into a conversation with several of his father's associates, his hand slipping from my waist as he pivots toward them. I'm left standing at the edge of his circle, close enough to appear involved but far enough that I'm clearly not part of the actual discussion.

I check my phone. No new messages from Kate or Amy, which probably means they've moved on to their Saturday night plans. I slide it back into my clutch and look around the tent, trying to decide if I should find another drink or attempt conversation with someone I don't know.

That's when the energy shifts. It's subtle at first—a ripple in the crowd near the tent entrance, a turning of heads, a momentary pause in conversation. Then I see people moving, angling themselves slightly, the way plants turn toward light. Someone has arrived. Someone important enough to cause this small disruption in the carefully orchestrated evening.

I follow the crowd's gaze and see him: Knox Sterling.

I've seen him before, of course. Brief encounters at family events over the past two years—a holiday party at Diane and Conrad's Newport estate, a summer barbecue last year, maybe one or two other occasions that blur together. Each time, we've exchanged polite hellos, nothing more. Ships passing in the carefully navigated waters of Sterling family dynamics.

But seeing him now, watching him move through the tent entrance, I understand why heads turn.

He's tall—I knew that, but here, in this space, it's more pronounced. Six-foot-four at least, with shoulders that fill out his navy suit in a way that suggests he didn't inherit his frame so much as build it. His hair is salt-and-pepper, more silver at the temples, and it catches the light from the chandeliers as he moves. His face is all angles and shadows—strong jaw, high cheekbones, the kind of bone structure that ages well because it never relied on youth to be compelling.

He moves through the crowd like he's done this a thousand times but never quite gotten comfortable with it. There's a quietness to him, a self-containment that makes Rowan's need for attention look almost desperate by comparison. He doesn't announce himself. Doesn't need to. The space adjusts to him.

I watch as he makes his way toward his parents. Diane sees him first—her face lights up with something that looks like genuine relief, like she wasn't sure he'd actually come. She moves toward him, arms outstretched.

The embrace is brief. Warm but not quite comfortable. Knox's arms go around his mother, but there's a stiffness to it, a formality that speaks to distance. When they separate, Diane's hands linger on his arms, her mouth moving with words I can't hear from across the tent.

Conrad approaches next. No embrace here—just an extended hand, a firm shake that lasts exactly as long as politeness requires. Their faces are neutral, professional. This is a business associate greeting, not father and son. Knox says something. Conrad responds. The conversation looks civil, appropriate, and completely devoid of warmth.

I shouldn't be staring. It's rude, and worse, it's obvious. But there's something magnetic about watching this interaction—the careful distance, the performance of familial affection that doesn't quite reach their eyes. It's like watching a play where everyone knows their lines but no one believes the story anymore.

Knox's eyes sweep the tent as his father talks. They're blue—I knew that, I think, but from here, under these lights, they're striking. Piercing in a way that makes me understand why business magazines write profiles about him with titles like: "The Sterling Who Left" and "Building His Own Empire."

His gaze moves across the crowd, and for a moment—maybe three seconds, maybe less—his eyes meet mine.

It's not loaded. Not meaningful. Just acknowledgment. A brief recognition of shared space, shared family orbit, shared understanding that we're both here because proximity to Sterling blood requires it.

I should look away. That would be the polite thing. Instead, I hold his gaze for those three seconds. A simple acknowledgment in return. I see you. You see me. We've done this dance before at these events.

Then his attention moves on, pulled by something his father is saying, and the moment breaks.

I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Did you see that?"

I turn. A woman in her forties, dressed in emerald silk, is standing next to me with wide eyes.

"See what?" I ask, though I know exactly what she means.

"Knox Sterling actually showed up. Diane must be thrilled. He never comes to these things anymore." She leans in conspiratorially.

"There's a pool, you know. Some of us bet on whether he'd make an appearance."

"Did you win?"

"God, no. I bet against him. Cost me two hundred dollars." She laughs, not unkindly.

"Though I suppose it's worth it to see Conrad's face. You know they haven't spoken properly in what, five years?"

"I didn't know that." It's not entirely true, but close enough. Rowan has mentioned the rift in passing—usually when he's had too much to drink and wants to catalog all the ways Knox disappointed their father—but he's never given details.