Page 4 of The Silver Fox Brother

Kate: And remember to actually EAT. You always forget to eat at these things.

Amy: Because Rowan monopolizes her the whole night and she's too polite to grab apps.

Kate: Not polite. Performing.

I smile at my phone—the first genuine expression I've made since I started getting ready an hour ago. These two know me better than anyone, including the man I've been dating for two years. They were there when I landed my first real client, a West Village brownstonethat paid me in exposure and a thousand dollars that felt like a million. They were there when I signed the lease on my studio space in Tribeca, when I hired my first assistant, when I became Winter Hayes Design and not just Winter Hayes with a portfolio and a dream.

They were also there three months ago when I cried into cheap wine because Rowan forgot our anniversary. Again.

Winter: I'll eat. I promise. And the dress is working.

Amy: PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN

I angle my phone, snap a quick photo. The dress photographs well—it should, considering what I paid for it. Send.

Kate: Stunning. Now go be whoever you need to be tonight and come back to us tomorrow.

Amy: We'll debrief everything. Including whether Rowan's hot brother shows up. ??

Kate: AMY.

Amy: What? He's objectively attractive. I'm just saying.

Winter: I'm ignoring that. See you tomorrow.

I set my phone down before Amy can continue. Knox Sterling isn't someone I think about, mostly because the few times I've been in the same room with him over the past two years, we've barely exchanged more than polite hellos. He's Rowan's older brother, the one who left the family business a decade ago and built his own empire—a fact that Rowan mentions with varying degrees of bitterness depending on how much he's had to drink.

Mostly, Knox is tall. Imposing. The kind of presence that shifts energy when he enters a room, though he does it quietly, without Rowan's need for attention. We've stood in the same circles at family events maybe four times. Each time, his eyes have met mine for a handful of seconds—polite acknowledgment, nothing more—before he's moved on to whichever business associate or family obligation required his presence.

I know what the magazines say about him. Forbes' lists, Manhattan Magazine's most eligible bachelors, the developer who's reshaping the city's skyline with buildings that somehow manage to be both minimalist and warm. Amy texts me articles sometimes, usually with commentary about his bone structure.

I don't think about him beyond that. There's no reason to.

My phone buzzes again. Rowan.

Rowan: Downstairs. Now.

The shift from "in 10" to "now" in the span of four minutes would be funny if it weren't so perfectly him. I slip my phone into my clutch—the small Bottega Veneta that Rowan bought me for Christmas, probably selected by whatever personal shopper he uses at Bergdorf's—and slide my feet into my Louboutins. The heels are high enough to bring me closer to Rowan's six-two but not so high that I tower in photos.

Everything is calculated. I've learned to calculate.

One last look in the mirror. The woman looking back is polished, appropriate, exactly what a Sterling family event requires. She looks like she belongs in this world of old money and older expectations.

She looks nothing like the girl who showed up to New York with a duffel bag and a chip on her shoulder.

I miss that girl sometimes.

The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. I push it down, smooth my dress one final time, and head for the door. The hallway is all dark wood and oil paintings of people who've been dead for a century, their eyes following me as I make my way to the grand staircase. Voices float up from below—the party is already in full swing, two hundred of the Sterlings' closest friends gathering on the back lawn for whatever charity Diane has chosen to champion this year.

I pause at the top of the stairs, hand on the bannister. Below, I can see the edges of the crowd through the open French doors. White tents, string lights, the golden hour light that makes the Hamptons feel like a movie set. From here, it looks beautiful. Aspirational.

From here, I can't see the careful hierarchies, the whispered judgments, the way Diane's friends assess every woman under forty like we're horses at auction.

I descend. Each step perfectly measured in these heels, my hand light on the bannister because Diane once mentioned that gripping it "looks nervous." By the time I reach the bottom, my face has arranged itself into the expression I've practiced: pleasant, approachable, confident but not threatening.

Rowan waits in the foyer, talking to one of his father's business associates. He's in a Tom Ford tux that fits him perfectly because he has a tailor on retainer. His brown hair is styled with just enough product to look effortless. He's objectively handsome—I fell for that face two years ago at a charity gala not unlike this one, when he'd smiled at me across a room and made me feel like the only person in it.

Now he glances up as I approach, and I watch his eyes travel over me. Assessing. Cataloging. His expression shifts into approval.