Page 24 of The Silver Fox Brother

Rowan canceled dinner again.

I'm sitting alone in an apartment that doesn't feel like home.

I'm drinking wine and staring at a multimillion-dollar view and feeling absolutely nothing.

They'd tell me what they already said yesterday; that I deserve better. That I'm making excuses. That I have blind spots when it comes to him.

They're right. I know they're right. But knowing and doing are different things.

I finish my wine, pour another glass. The sun is setting now, painting the park in shades of amber and rose. I should eat something—there's a gourmet grocery downstairs that would deliver anything I wanted within twenty minutes. I should change out of my work clothes, take a shower, do something productive with this evening I suddenly have to myself.

I finish my second glass of wine and head to the bedroom. The master suite is as impersonal as the rest of the apartment—king bed with hotel-quality linens in white and gray, matching nightstands, a bench at the foot of thebed that's purely decorative because neither of us ever sits on it. My side of the walk-in closet is organized by color and season, Rowan's side is all suits and dress shirts arranged with precision that suggests his housekeeper maintains it.

I change out of my work clothes into leggings and an oversized sweater, something comfortable that doesn't require performance. Wash my face, tie up my hair, the routine motions that mark the end of one day and the beginning of evening.

The apartment is still silent. Still empty. I check my phone. No new texts from Rowan. It's eight-thirty—he said late, which probably means ten or eleven, maybe later.

I could go back to the living room, find something to watch on the massive TV Rowan insisted we needed. I could order food, open another bottle of wine, settle in for an evening alone.

Instead, I head to the third bedroom—the one I claimed as a design studio. It's the smallest of the three, but it has good light and I've filled it with the things that couldn't fit anywhere else in Rowan's carefully curated aesthetic. My drafting table from college, a vintage dress form I found at a flea market, shelves lined with design books and material samples. A corkboard covered in inspiration images and fabric swatches and paint chips that don't match anything in the rest of the apartment.

This room is mine.Actually mine.

I sit at the drafting table and pull out my tablet, opening the file for the Chen project. Might as well be productive with this unexpected free evening. I review the material selections from this morning's meeting, make notes on adjustments, and sketch some preliminary furniture layouts.

Hours pass. I lose myself in the work, in the comfortable focus of designing, problem-solving, creating. By the time I check my phone again, it's past eleven.

One new text from Rowan, sent forty minutes ago.

Rowan: Heading home now. Long day.

I don't respond. He'll see I'm awake when he gets here.

I save my work, shut down the tablet, and head back to the living room. Pour myself water from the filtered tap, settle onto the sofa with my phone.

The elevator chimes—someone's coming up. A moment later, the private entrance opens and Rowan walks in.

He looks exhausted. Tie loosened, jacket over his arm, hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. He sees me on the sofa and offers a tired smile.

"Hey. You waited up."

"Couldn't sleep."

He drops his jacket over the back of a chair, his briefcase on the floor. Crosses to me, leans down to kiss my forehead. He smells like scotch and cologne and the city.

"Sorry about dinner. This deal is insane right now."

"It's okay. I got work done."

"Of course you did." He straightens, loosening his tie completely. "I'm beat. Long day doesn't even cover it."

"The investors meeting went that late?"

"Meeting, then drinks after. Davidson wanted to go over some details." He heads toward the bedroom.

"I'm going to shower and crash. You coming to bed?"

I should. It's late, and tomorrow is another full day at the studio. But sitting here in the quiet, working on my projects, having the space to myself—it felt good.