Page 25 of The Silver Fox Brother

"In a bit," I say. "Going to finish some things."

"Don't stay up too late." He's already halfway down the hall, phone in hand, checking something.

I watch him disappear into the bedroom, hear the shower start a moment later. I set the phone down and lean back into the uncomfortable sofa, staring at the view of Gramercy Park lit up in the darkness.

The shower shuts off. I hear Rowan moving around the bedroom, getting ready for bed. I stay on the sofa, in the quiet. I don't know what that says about me—the fact that I'm more comfortable sitting here alone than I am joining him in our bedroom.

Chapter Three

Knox

The email arrives at 5:47 AM, which is exactly when I'd expect bad news to show up—early enough to ruin the entire day.

Subject: Vertex Design Group - Contract Termination Notice

I stare at my phone screen, still half-asleep, the words sharpening into focus as my brain catches up to what I'm reading.

Due to unforeseen circumstances and a conflicting opportunity in Dubai, Vertex Design Group must withdraw from the Sterling Tower project, effective immediately. We apologize for any inconvenience...

Inconvenience.

Three model units. Six-month timeline. Investors touring in December expecting to see fully designed, staged residences that showcase exactly what eight-figure penthouses should look like. And Amanda Cho—the lead designer at Vertex, the one I personally vetted, the one who assured me they could handle the timeline and scope—just torched the contract for a Dubai job.

I sit up, the sheets cool against my skin, and scroll through the rest of the email. Legal boilerplate. Apologies that mean nothing. A suggestion that they can recommend other firms.

I don't need recommendations. I need a designer who doesn't breach contracts six months before deadline.

The penthouse is quiet except for the ambient hum of the city thirty floors below. My bedroom faces east, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the early morning light creeping over Central Park. Summer dawn comes early, the sky shifting from deep blue to pale gold, the park stretching out like a green expanse in the middle of all this concrete and steel.

The view is why I'm here. Central Park from the thirtieth floor, the top floor, with a winding staircase connecting the two levels of this space. When I found this place eight years ago, the view sold me before I even saw the rest of the penthouse. Four bedrooms, five baths, a chef's kitchen, a home gym—all secondary to waking up to this every morning.

I swing my legs out of bed and head for the shower. The bathroom is Italian marble and brushed nickel, understated in a way that doesn't announce itself. I turn the water hot—scalding, the way I like it—and stand under the dual rainfall showerheads, letting the heat work through the tension already settling into my shoulders.

Vertex pulling out isn't just inconvenient. It's a problem that cascades. No designer means no schematic designs. No designs mean no procurement. No procurement means no installation. No installation means investors walk through empty model units in December and question whether I can actually deliver on vision.

I don't give people reasons to question me.

By the time I step out of the shower, my mind's already three steps ahead—backup options, timeline adjustments, how to manage this so it doesn't become a real setback. I towel off, shave with the straight razor I've used since Yale, and catch my reflection in the mirror.

Forty-seven looks different than forty did. The silver at my temples came earlier than I expected, but it works—adds a certain gravitas that youth can't manufacture. I keep in shape because discipline matters, because six-four and two-ten requires maintenance, because early mornings at the gym and racquetball games that feel like warfare keep everything sharp.

I dress quickly—charcoal Brioni suit, white shirt, no tie yet. The fabric moves the way quality fabric should, tailored precisely because details matter. People judge you in the first three seconds. Those three seconds better communicate that I don't waste time.

The kitchen is all white marble and stainless steel, clean lines and top-tier appliances. I make espresso with the machine I've had for years, a double shot pulled to perfection. Drink it black, standing at the counter, looking out at the park as the city wakes up.

My phone buzzes. Text from Victor, my driver.

Victor: Downstairs when you're ready, Mr. Sterling.

I finish the espresso, grab my briefcase and suit jacket, and head for the private elevator.

The ride to the office takes fourteen minutes. Morning traffic on the Upper East Side is predictable—dense but moving, the rhythm of the city getting to work. Victor navigates the Bentley smoothly through intersections, the car's interior quiet except for the low hum of the engine.

I scroll through emails on my phone, responding to urgent ones, flagging the rest. There's a message from Marcus, my assistant, confirming this morning's investor meeting. Another from Fletcher about racquetball later. A contract review from my legal team that I'll get to this afternoon.

Nothing from Vertex offering an actual solution, just the cowardly exit email.

We pull up to the building on Madison Avenue at 6:58 AM. Glass and steel, modern lines, the kind of architecture that takes up space without apology. Sterling Luxury Developments occupies the top three floors—executive offices, conference rooms, and a design studio where we mock up renderings and floor plans before breaking ground.