Chapter 4 #2
“So,” Eleanor says once the server disappears, “I’ve been following your work for a while now. The Williamsburg loft you did for the Johnsons—I saw it in person at their housewarming last month. It’s stunning.”
The Johnsons. That’s the referral source.
“Thank you. That was a fun project. They gave me a lot of creative freedom, which always helps.”
“It shows. The way you preserved the industrial elements but made it feel warm—that’s exactly what I want for our place.” She pauses as the server returns with our drinks.
“We bought a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights two years ago. Four stories, original details, but it hasn’t been touched since the eighties. Maybe earlier.”
“What drew you to it?”
“The bones. The moldings, the fireplaces, the staircase—it’s all there, just buried under terrible choices.” She takes a sip of her wine.
“We’ve been living with it as-is while we saved and planned, but we’re ready now. Ready to gut it and do it right.”
“Tell me about your family. How do you live?”
Eleanor’s face softens slightly.
“Married, two kids. Sophie’s eight, James is six. My husband works in finance, travels a lot for work, so when he’s home, we want the house to actually function for us. Right now, it doesn’t.”
“What’s not working?”
“Everything.” She laughs.
“The kitchen is tiny and closed off. The flow upstairs is a maze—you practically need a map to get from the master to the kids’ rooms. The backyard is a concrete slab with some sad planters.
And the storage is nonexistent. We have bikes and scooters and all the detritus of family life, and nowhere to put any of it. ”
I’m making mental notes—not writing them down, just cataloging. Kitchen flow. Second-floor layout. Storage solutions. Outdoor space.
“What does success look like for this project?” I ask.
She considers the question.
“A home that works for how we actually live. Modern functionality—good appliances, smart storage, spaces that make sense for kids. But I don’t want to lose the character. I don’t want it to feel like we erased a hundred and twenty years of history to install subway tile and open shelving.”
This is the right answer. This is a client who understands what she wants.
“That’s exactly the balance I aim for,” I tell her.
“Honoring what’s original while updating everything that needs updating. It’s a renovation, not a demolition.”
The server returns to take our order. Eleanor gets the steak frites. I order the Nicoise salad—something I can eat quickly if needed.
Once the server leaves, Eleanor leans forward slightly.
“I’ll be honest. I’ve talked to other designers. They all wanted to turn it into something you’d see on Instagram. That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“Rooms. Actual rooms with doors. A kitchen that’s open enough to keep an eye on the kids but not so open that you’re staring at dirty dishes from the living room. A dining room that feels formal when we need it to but also works for Tuesday night pasta with crayon drawings on the table.”
I smile. “That’s real life.”
“Exactly.”
Our food arrives faster than expected—efficient service, the kind that reads the room and knows when people are here for business, not leisure. Eleanor cuts into her steak, and I spear a forkful of salad.
“Timeline-wise,” I say, “what are you thinking?”
“We’d want to start in the spring. March or April. The kids’ school year ends in June, and we were planning to decamp to my parents’ place in Connecticut for the summer while the worst of the construction happens. Ideally, we’d be back in by fall.”
I do the math quickly. March start, target completion by September. Six months for a gut renovation. Tight, but doable if everything moves efficiently.
“That’s ambitious but achievable,” I say.
“The key is having everything designed and specified before demo starts. No making decisions on the fly. That’s where timelines blow up.”
“I’m good with decisions,” Eleanor says.
“My husband jokes that I’m pathologically decisive.”
“That’ll help.” I take a sip of water.
“What about the backyard? You mentioned it’s concrete now.”
“It’s depressing. I’d love some sort of garden space—nothing elaborate, just greenery, maybe some seating, a place where the kids can play that doesn’t feel like a prison yard.” She pauses.
“But I know that’s more landscape design than interior. Is that something you handle?”
“I work with landscape architects for outdoor spaces. I can coordinate that piece so everything feels cohesive.”
She nods, visibly relieved. “Good. I want the whole thing to feel intentional, not like we hired six different people who never talked to each other.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. The restaurant hums around us—conversations blending into ambient noise, the clink of silverware on plates, the controlled chaos of a place that knows what it’s doing.
“Why Winter Hayes Design?” Eleanor asks after a moment.
“What makes your firm different?”
It’s the question every potential client asks, and the answer matters.
“I think it’s about understanding that design isn’t just aesthetic,” I say.
“It’s about how you move through space, how a room makes you feel when you walk into it, whether a house supports your life or fights against it. I’m not interested in creating something that looks good in photos but doesn’t work in practice.”
Eleanor sets her fork down.
“The Johnsons said the same thing. They said you asked them a hundred questions about how they lived before you drew a single line.”
“Because that’s the work. Anyone can specify marble and custom millwork. The real challenge is creating something that’s both beautiful and functional.”
She smiles. “I think we’re going to work well together.”
“I think so too.”
We finish lunch discussing logistics—budget range, permitting timelines, the site visit I’ll schedule for next week.
By the time the check arrives at 2:25, I’m confident Eleanor Whitmore is going to hire me.
Another major project, another timeline that’ll push my team, another opportunity to prove that Winter Hayes Design can handle the growth.
Eleanor insists on paying. “You’re doing me the favor of taking this on,” she says, and we part ways on Lafayette with plans to connect early next week.
I walk back toward the studio, the afternoon sun warm on my face, my mind already shifting to the next thing.
Victoria’s townhouse this morning, Eleanor’s brownstone just now, the Chen penthouse still in progress, the Williamsburg loft wrapping up.
The work is relentless, but it’s the kind of relentlessness that proves something: I built this.
Every client, every project, every decision.
By the time I’m back at the studio, it’s almost 3 PM. Maya’s at her desk, phone pressed to her ear, taking notes on something. She waves when she sees me, mouths “two minutes.”
I head into my office, drop my bag, and check my phone. A few emails, nothing urgent. I pull up the Williamsburg project file—James wanted to discuss lighting, and I promised I’d call him back.
The afternoon stretches ahead: calls to return, designs to finalize, the endless logistics of running a firm that’s growing faster than I planned. I take a breath, open my laptop, and get back to it.
The afternoon blurs by in the usual rhythm—calls returned, designs refined, the constant motion of keeping a growing firm on track.
By four-thirty, I'm deep in the Williamsburg loft lighting specs when I notice Maya's desk is empty. Bathroom break, probably, or grabbing coffee downstairs. The studio is quiet except for the ambient hum of the city outside.
My office phone rings. I glance at the caller ID. Unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but instinct says answer.
I pick up. "Winter Hayes Design."
"Hello, I'm looking to speak with Winter Hayes?" A male voice, professional, unfamiliar.
I shift the phone to my other ear.
"Who's calling?"
"I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Sterling's office—"
Mr. Sterling. Rowan's office. He must need something, maybe running late for dinner plans I've forgotten about.
I cut in. "Yes, this is Winter Hayes speaking."
There's a brief pause. "Oh, hello Ms. Hayes. This is Marcus from Sterling Luxury Developments. Mr. Sterling would like to schedule a meeting to discuss a potential project. Would you have availability this week?"
My pen stops mid-note.
Sterling Luxury Developments.
Not Sterling Commercial. Not Rowan's office.
Knox.
I set my pen down carefully, my brain scrambling to catch up.
"I'm sorry—could you say that again?"
Marcus doesn't miss a beat, his tone professional, measured.
"Of course. I'm calling on behalf of Knox Sterling. He's interested in meeting with you to discuss a potential design project."
Knox Sterling wants to meet with me.
Rowan's brother. The one who left the family business years ago and hasn't looked back. The one person Rowan can barely mention without tension creeping into his voice.
I realize I haven't responded. "What kind of project?"
"Mr. Sterling prefers to discuss the details in person," Marcus says smoothly.
"But I can tell you it's a potential design project, and he'd at least like to tell you about it. See if it might be of interest to you."
"I see." I pull my calendar closer, my mind still trying to piece together how this is happening. Knox Sterling—who I've maybe spoken to five times in two years, brief hellos at family gatherings—somehow knows about my firm.
The curiosity hits before I can stop it. What kind of project? I shouldn't be curious. This is complicated territory—Rowan's brother, family politics I don't fully understand, lines I probably shouldn't cross. But I’m curious.
"When were you thinking?" The question comes out before I've decided whether to say yes.
"Would tomorrow afternoon work? 2pm?"
Tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours from now.
I glance at my calendar. Thursday afternoon is open—I'd blocked it for design work, nothing that can't be moved.
Say no. Tell him you need to check your schedule. Call Rowan first.
But the word that comes out is different.
"Thursday at two works."
"Excellent." I hear typing on Marcus's end.
"The meeting will be at Mr. Sterling's office on Madison Avenue. I'll send you the address."
I write it down, my handwriting steadier than I feel.
"Got it."
"Perfect. Mr. Sterling is looking forward to meeting with you, Ms. Hayes."
"Thank you."
I hang up. The phone sits on my desk. I stare at it, waiting for my brain to process what just happened. I lean back in my chair, looking at the note I just wrote. Madison Avenue. Thursday, 2 PM.
This is Rowan's brother. The family rift isn't some minor disagreement—it's a decade-old fracture that nobody talks about but everyone feels. I've done projects for Sterling Commercial, worked with Rowan's family's business. Knox knows that. He has to know that.
And he still reached out.
Why?
The question sits there, unanswered. I don't know enough about Knox to guess. He's a name I hear at family gatherings, a presence that's always conspicuously absent. Diane mentions him carefully. Conrad doesn't mention him at all. Rowan's voice goes tight when the subject comes up.
But I know his reputation. Everyone in the industry does. Sterling Luxury Developments is one of the top firms in Manhattan. Knox builds with the kind of precision and vision that gets written about, that changes skylines. Whatever he's working on, it's not small.
The curiosity gnaws at me—taboo, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
I should call Rowan. Right now. Tell him what just happened before this becomes something I'm hiding.
But I already know how that conversation goes. He'll ask why Knox reached out. He'll want details I don't have. He'll make it about family loyalty, about sides, about complications that have nothing to do with my work.
And I don't even know what the project is yet.
I pull out my phone, open my calendar, add the entry. Thursday, 2 PM. Knox Sterling's office.
I stare at it. Tomorrow afternoon, I'll find out what this is about. Then I'll have actual information. Then I can talk to Rowan with facts instead of speculation.
That's reasonable. That's professional. (That's also avoiding the conversation I know I should have tonight, but I'm choosing not to examine that too closely right now.)
Maya returns to her desk, drops her bag, glances toward my office. I must look normal enough because she just waves and goes back to her computer.
I turn back to the lighting specs on my screen, but my mind isn't on the Williamsburg loft anymore—it's on tomorrow, and what it will bring.