Page 45 of The Silver Fox Brother

“Then we’re on the same page,” I say.

“Because that’s exactly what I design—spaces that look incredible but feel lived-in. Luxury that’s approachable, not intimidating.”

She smiles—genuine, warm. “I think we might be a good fit.”

“I think so too.”

We spend the next twenty minutes walking through logistics. Timeline: eight to ten months from contract to completion. Budget: she has a number in mind that’s more than adequate for the scope. Next steps: I’ll do a full site visit next week, take detailed measurements, develop schematic designs that we’ll review together.

By the time Victoria leaves at 10:47, I’m ninety percent sure she’s going to hire me.

Maya appears as soon as the elevator doors close.

“How’d it go?”

“Good. Really good. She’s thinking it over, but I’d be surprised if she doesn’t move forward.”

“That’s three major projects in the pipeline. You’re going to need to hire another designer,” Maya quips.

She’s right. The workload is building faster than I anticipated. Between the Chens, the Williamsburg loft, and now potentially Victoria’s townhouse, my team is going to be stretched thin.

“Let’s get through this week first. If Victoria signs, we’ll start looking.”

Maya makes a note.

“Your lunch reservation is in two hours. Eleanor Whitmore. Want me to pull comps for Brooklyn Heights brownstones?”

“Already did it last night. File’s on my desktop.”

“Of course it is.” She grins.

“You’re going to be late to your own funeral because you were prepping for a client meeting.”

“Probably true.”

I spend the next hour returning calls, reviewing the Williamsburg lighting fixtures with James, approving invoices, and sketching preliminary ideas for Victoria’s kitchen. The work is relentless, but it’s the kind of relentless I love—the constant motion, the problem-solving, the building of something from nothing.

By 12:30, I’m changing from my work flats into heels, touching up my lipstick, and heading out to meet Eleanor Whitmore for lunch.

Le Coucou sits tucked into SoHo on Lafayette, the kind of French brasserie that manages to feel both elegant and lived-in. The dining room is all dark wood and cream banquettes, brass fixtures catching the afternoon lightstreaming through tall windows. It’s bustling with the lunch crowd—deal-makers and creatives, the rhythm of Manhattan at midday.

Eleanor Whitmore is already seated when I arrive, studying the menu with the focused attention of someone who takes dining seriously. She’s early forties, dressed in understated luxury—cashmere sweater, tailored trousers, minimal jewelry that probably cost more than it appears. Brooklyn Heights energy: refined, cultured, the kind of woman who volunteers on nonprofit boards and hosts book clubs.

She stands when she sees me approach, extends her hand with a warm smile.

“Winter. Thank you so much for making time.”

“Of course. This place is lovely.”

“It’s one of my favorites. The steak frites here are incredible if you’re hungry.”

We settle into the banquette, and a server appears almost immediately. Eleanor orders a glass of Sancerre. I ask for sparkling water—I have a full afternoon ahead, and wine at lunch is a luxury I can’t afford today.

“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.”