Page 114 of The Silver Fox Brother

"Four bouquets this month. I give them all to Maya."

"He's not giving up," Kate observes.

"He will. Eventually. When he realizes I'm never taking him back."

Silence settles for a moment, and I can feel both of them watching me, trying to gauge how I'm really doing.

I set down my champagne.

"Can we please talk about literally anything else? I'm sick of giving Rowan Sterling any more mental space than he's already taken."

Amy nods. "Fair enough. So tell me about the penthouse design. What are you thinking?"

I launch into a description of the concept I'm developing—modern but warm, unexpected elements, art that makes a statement. Kate and Amy ask questions, and the conversation flows naturally away from Rowan and back to work, to design, to things I actually care about.

We unpack for another two hours. By the time we finish, the apartment looks like someone actually lives here. Books on shelves, art on walls, kitchen organized, bedroom set up.

Amy orders more Thai food while Kate opens another bottle of wine. We eat sitting on the floor around the coffee table, laughing about something ridiculous Amy's younger brother did during her trip to California.

Kate refills our glasses and raises hers.

"To new beginnings."

"To new beginnings," Amy and I echo.

We drink, and I look around the apartment—my apartment, at least for now—filled with my things and my best friends and the life I'm rebuilding piece by piece.

"Thank you," I say.

"For being here. For everything."

"Always," Amy says.

Kate nods in agreement. "That's what we do."

The evening stretches on, the conversation shifting through a dozen different topics. By the time Kate and Amy leave around nine, I'm exhausted but content.

I clean up the takeout containers, rinse the champagne flutes, and look around the apartment that's finally starting to feel like home.

***

It's midweek, and I'm in Knox's office finishing a meeting about penthouse staging. I gather my materials—fabric swatches, paint samples, the rendering I brought to show him the updated layout.

"Winter."

I turn back. Knox is standing by his desk, watching me.

"Do you have dinner plans?" he asks.

"What?" I’m caught off guard for a moment at the question.

"Dinner. Tonight. It's almost six."

I glance at my watch—5:50pm.

"I was planning to work late,” I say with intent.

"You've been working late every night this week,” he quips.