Page 23 of The Silver Fox Brother

I've lived here for a year. Exactly a year—Rowan asked me to move in last July, framing it as the logical next step after eighteen months of dating. At the time, it felt significant. A commitment. A future being built together.

I gave up my Greenwich Village apartment for this—a fifth-floor walk-up with a clawfoot tub and a fire escape where I'd drink morning coffee and watch the neighborhood wake up. I loved that apartment. The creaky floors, the radiator that clanged all winter, the bodega downstairs that knew my order. It was mine in a way this place has never quite managed to be.

The elevator requires a key for the penthouse. I turn it, ride up in silence, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls. I look tired. Professional, polished, put-together, but tired underneath it all.

The doors open directly into the foyer—one of those architectural details that announces wealth before you even step inside. Marble floors in a herringbone pattern, a console table that probably cost more than my first car, fresh flowers that a service replaces twice a week. The space opens into a living area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, furniture in shades of gray and cream that Rowan selected before I moved in.

I've added touches. The throw pillows in deep blue silk, the vintage art deco bar cart I found at an estate sale, the coffee table books on design and architecture. But the bones of this place—the leather sofa, the glass dining table, the modern minimalism that feels more like a showroom than a home—that's all Rowan.

Three bedrooms, three and a half baths, a chef's kitchen with appliances I barely use because we eat out more often than not. The master suite has a walk-in closet the size of my old studio apartment and a bathroom with heated floors and a shower that has six different settings. There's a home office where Rowan works late into the night, a guest room that's never had a guest, and a third bedroom I claimed as a design studio but rarely use because I'd rather be at my actual studio in Tribeca.

It's beautiful. It's luxurious. It has everything anyone could possibly need. It just never felt like mine.

I drop my bag on the console table and kick off my heels, leaving them by the door. My feet ache—I've been in those shoes since eight-thirty this morning. I pad across the cool marble into the living area, heading for the kitchen to pour wine or water or something to mark the transition from work to whatever this is.

My phone buzzes. Rowan.

Rowan: Meeting with investors running late. Going to have to raincheck dinner. Sorry.

I stare at the text. The same restaurant. The second time he's canceled.

Winter: Okay. No problem.

Rowan: Did you get the flowers?

Winter: Yes. They're beautiful. Thank you.

Rowan: Wanted to do something nice. Make up for last week.

Flowers as an apology. Flowers instead of showing up. Flowers because they're easier than actual presence.

Winter: I appreciate it.

Rowan: I'll make it up to you. Promise. This deal is just crazy right now.

Winter: I understand. See you when you get home.

Rowan: Probably late. Don't wait up.

I set my phone on the counter and stand there in the quiet apartment, looking out at the view. Gramercy Park spreads below, that exclusive private park that only residents with keys can access. The trees are full and green with summer, the paths lit by vintage lampposts that give everything a warm glow as evening settles in.

It's the kind of view people pay millions for. The kind of view that's supposed to make you feel like you've made it.

I feel nothing.

The apartment is silent except for the ambient hum of the air conditioning, the distant sound of traffic muffled by triple-pane windows. I open the Sub-Zero refrigerator—mostly empty except for takeout containers, a bottle of Sancerre, some overpriced cheese I bought last week and forgot about. Pull out the wine, pour myself a generous glass.

The living room furniture faces the windows, positioned to maximize the view. I sink into the leather sofa—Rowan's choice, butter-soft and expensive and completely uncomfortable for actually relaxing. The throw pillows I added help, the blue silk ones that at least bring some warmth to all this gray.

I tried when I first moved in. Suggested we repaint the walls, maybe add some color, bring in pieces with more character. Rowan said he liked it the way it was, that his designer had created the perfect modern aesthetic.

"We don't want it to look cluttered," he'd said. As if my design sense—the thing I do professionally, the thing I'm building a career on—would make his apartment look cluttered.

So I added what I could. The pillows. The bar cart. A few art pieces he tolerated. Small touches that whisper "Winter lives here too" without shouting it.

The rest is his. His furniture, his aesthetic, his space that I've been allowed into.

I pull out my phone, consider texting Kate or Amy. But what would I say?