Chapter 90

• The morning of the broadcast, the sky didn’t try to perform. It hung gray over Manhattan, flat and undecorated, like a ceiling without texture. The city moved beneath it, sharp as ever, but quieter than usual—at least to me. Maybe because I knew what was coming. Maybe because this time, I wasn’t stepping into a storm. I was the one about to release it.
• We had cleared the boutique the night before. Every mannequin had been moved to the back. The racks had been covered. Fabric bolts wrapped and stored, sewing tables wiped down to bare wood. We hadn’t done it to be dramatic. We had done it to strip away distraction. The room wasn’t for beauty today. It was for truth.
• Arielle arrived early. No entourage, no makeup team. Just her, in a charcoal blazer and clean-lined trousers, hair pulled back with clinical precision. She said good morning softly and didn’t ask how I slept. She didn’t need to. She knew I hadn’t. She just looked at me with that calm steadiness she always carried before something serious and handed me a black folder.