Page 59 of The Silver Fox Brother

"Fair point."

We walk the two-bedroom unit together. Winter asks questions—mechanical system placement, ceiling heights, window specifications. Tom answers most of them, but I notice she directs some specifically to me.

She wants to know my vision, not just the technical specs.

"The kitchen," she says, standing in what will eventually be a high-end culinary space.

"You mentioned open to the living area. How open?"

"No wall between them," I say.

"But defined by a large island. I want visual connection without sacrificing the sense that the kitchen is its own zone."

Winter nods slowly, her eyes scanning the space.

"So someone cooking can still be part of the conversation in theliving room, but the kitchen doesn't become the living room."

"Exactly."

"Custom cabinetry?"

"Full custom. Italian marble counters. Brass fixtures. But I don't want it to feel like a showroom. It needs to feel like a kitchen where people actually cook."

She turns to face me fully.

"You keep saying that. Lived-in luxury. Functional beauty. Most developers don't think that way."

"I'm not most developers."

"No," she says, holding my gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

"You're not."

The moment stretches. Tom clears his throat.

"Should we head up to the penthouse level? That's really the showcase."

Winter breaks eye contact first, turns back to the window.

"Yes. Let's see the penthouse."

The construction elevator takes us up another fifteen floors. At this height, the wind picks up. Summer air moving through the open sides of the elevator, warm and carrying the smell of the river. Winter's ponytail moves slightly in the breeze. A few strands have escaped, catching the light.

I notice the way she stands—weight shifted slightly onto one hip, one hand gripping the safety rail, the other still holding her portfolio against her body. The pencil skirt shows the line of her legs. Long. Toned. The Louboutin heels somehow don't look out of place even thirty floors above a construction site.

She catches me looking. I don't look away fast enough. Neither of us says anything. She shifts her gaze back to the view rising around us as we climb higher. The elevator shudders to a stop at the thirtieth floor. And everything changes.

The space is massive. Raw. Breathtaking in its potential. Fifty-five hundred square feet of unfinished luxury spread across the entire top floor. Exposed concrete, steel beams overhead, columns marking where walls will eventually divide the space into rooms. But right now, it's open—one vast expanse with windows on three sides, partially installed, some still just openings that let in summer air and light.

The view is staggering. Manhattan spreads in every direction. The Hudson River to the west, catching afternoon sun and turning to molten gold. The East River visible in the distance. Central Park a dark green rectangle to the north. The Financial District's towers to the south, the Statue of Liberty tiny but visible in the harbor beyond.

At this height, the summer sun hits differently; golden. Intense. Unfiltered by the atmosphere closer to ground level. It pours through the window openings, illuminating the concrete dust still hanging in the air, making the entire space glow.

Winter walks forward slowly. She moves toward the western side where the windows frame the river view, her heels echoing on concrete, and stops in a shaft of sunlight pouring through one of the floor-to-ceiling openings.

The light catches her hair—turning blonde to nearly white-gold where the sun hits it directly. Illuminates the side of her face, throws her profile into sharp relief. The cream silk blouse becomes almost translucent in the intense light, showing the outline of her figure beneath.

I force myself to look at the space, not at her.