Page 7 of The Silver Fox Brother

My chest tightens. "Just over two years."

"And still no ring." She sighs, delicate and pointed.

"I know Rowan is focused on the business right now, but aman his age should be thinking about settling down. Continuity, you know. Legacy."

I'm only thirty, but in Diane’s math I’m nearly past my prime. Running out of time to produce the Sterling heirs she's cataloging in her mental ledger.

"We're both very focused on our careers right now," I say, the words automatic.

"When the time is right—"

"Of course, of course." Diane pats my arm.

"Though career is wonderful, dear, but it's not everything. Don't forget to make time for what matters."

She drifts away before I can respond, pulled into conversation with a couple I vaguely recognize from last year's gala. I'm left standing there with half a glass of champagne and the distinct feeling of having failed some invisible assessment.

My phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it out.

Amy: Status report: surviving?

Kate: And have you eaten yet?

I glance around. A server passes with what looks like tuna tartare on tiny spoons. I flag them down, take two, eat them without tasting.

Winter: Surviving. Just had the "when are you getting married" conversation with Diane.

Amy: YIKES

Kate: What did you say?

Winter: The usual. Focused on careers. When the time is right.

Kate: Has Rowan even mentioned marriage lately?

I stare at the text. Try to remember the last time Rowan brought up our future in concrete terms, not just vague "someday" statements.

I can't.

Winter: Not really.

Kate: Win...

Winter: I know. We'll talk tomorrow. Promise.

I pocket my phone before Kate can push further. Another server appears with champagne; I swap my empty glass for a full one. The evening is settling into that golden hour where everything looks soft and forgiving, where the wealth on display seems almost justified by its beauty.

I drift toward the edge of the crowd, near the rose garden where the jazz quartet plays. From here I can see the whole party—the clusters of conversation, the networking happening under the guise of social niceties, the careful dance of power and influence that these people have perfected over generations.

Rowan is still with the investors, laughing at something one of them said. His hand gestures are expansive, confident. He looks at home here in a way I never quite manage, despite two years of practice. This is his world. His birthright. I'm just the woman on his arm who's learned to navigate it without causing a scene.

"Excuse me, are you Winter Hayes?"

I turn. A woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a Hermès scarf smiles at me.

"I thought I recognized you from the article in Metropolitan Home. That brownstone restoration in the West Village was stunning."

Something loosens in my chest.