Page 12 of The Silver Fox Brother

"Oh yes. Huge falling out when Knox left Sterling Commercial. Conrad wanted him to take over eventually, groom him for leadership, the whole dynasty thing. But Knox had other ideas." She takes a sip of her champagne.

"Built his own company instead. Sterling Luxury Developments. Competes directly with his father's firm for the same high-end projects. Can you imagine?"

Actually, I can. Looking at Knox across the tent—the careful distance he maintains, the way he holds himself separate even while being present—I can imagine exactly why he'd choose to build something of his own rather than inherit something built for him.

"That must be difficult for the family," I say, the understatement of the century.

"Difficult?" The woman laughs.

"Darling, it's Shakespearean. Conrad sees it as betrayal. Knox sees it as independence. And poor Diane is caught in the middle, trying to keep some semblance of family intact." She glances at me, curious.

"Are you here with someone? I don't think we've met."

"Winter Hayes. I'm Rowan's girlfriend."

Her expression shifts—ah, you're that person, connecting dots, placing me in the family constellation.

"Oh! Well. That must be interesting, dating into all this drama."

"It has its moments."

She laughs again, genuine this time. "I'm sure it does. Well, it was lovely chatting with you, Winter. I'm going to get another drink before the real fireworks start."

"Fireworks?"

"You don't think Knox and Rowan are going to exchange more than three words all evening, do you? Those two can barely be in the same room without the temperature dropping twenty degrees." She winks.

"Stick around. It's better than theater."

She drifts away, leaving me with new information I'm not sure what to do with. I knew Rowan and Knox weren't close. But I didn't realize it was this bad—cold enough that people place bets, gossip openly, wait for confrontations like they're spectator sports.

I find Knox in the crowd again. He's moved away from his parents, talking to a man I don't recognize. His posture is relaxed but alert, like he's comfortable in his own skin but aware of every exit. There's something about the way he carries himself—self-possessed, self-contained, like he doesn't need anyone's approval because he stopped seeking it years ago.

It's the opposite of Rowan, who's still near the front of the tent, basking in congratulations for the Brooklyn project, his father's approval the sun he's been orbiting his entire life. And here's Knox, who walked away from that sun and built his own light.

I'm staring again. I force myself to look away, to find Rowan in the crowd. He's laughing at something one of the investors said, his hand animated as he talks. He looks happy. Successful. Like someone who's finally getting what he's always wanted.

His phone is in his other hand, though. Even now, even in his moment of triumph, his thumb moves across the screen. Typing something. To someone.

My stomach twists. I should go to him. Should stand beside him, support him, play the role of proud girlfriend celebrating her boyfriend's success. That's what tonight requires. That's what I've been doing for two years.

Instead, I stay where I am, champagne in hand, watching my boyfriend text someone else while his brother—the mysterious one, the one who left, the one peoplewhisper about—stands across the tent like he's attending a business function rather than a family celebration.

Knox glances up again, scanning the crowd. His eyes don't land on me this time. They find Rowan instead.

The look that passes between them is brief. A single nod from Knox. An equally brief nod from Rowan in return. No approaching each other. No conversation. Just acknowledgment of shared space, shared blood, shared history that's clearly more complicated than polite nods can convey.

Then Knox turns, says something to the man he's talking with, and moves toward the tent exit. He's leaving. He's been here maybe twenty minutes, showed his face, paid respects to his parents, acknowledged his brother, and now he's leaving. No fanfare. No drawn-out goodbyes. Just a quiet exit that probably half the tent won't even notice.

I watch him go, watch the way he navigates the crowd with minimal interaction, watch as he stops briefly near the exit to say something to his mother. Diane's face falls slightly—disappointment, maybe, or resignation—but she nods, touches his arm. He kisses her cheek and then he's gone, disappearing into the summer night as quietly as he arrived.

The tent feels different without him in it. Not worse, exactly. Just... less interesting.

"There you are."

Rowan appears at my elbow, his face flushed with champagne and success.

"Did you see that? My father actually called me a leader in front of everyone. Daniel from Goldman wants to set up a meeting next week to talk about—" He stops, noticing my expression.