Rain drummed softly on the glass ceiling of Midtown's most coveted showroom, where light pooled like honey across bolts of ocean-dyed silk.
Lina Hart stood at the center, surrounded by mannequins dressed in her newest line: asymmetrical cuts, raw-edge hems, fabrics stitched with memory.
Each piece told a story.
Each piece declared survival.
She adjusted a draped shoulder on a model, concentration honed like a blade.
Then the air shifted.
She didn't turn.
“I was wrong," Mason said from behind her.
She exhaled slowly. “You should leave."
But he didn't. His reflection appeared in the floor-to-ceiling mirror across from her—tall, solemn, haunted.
“You look different," he said.
“Good," Lina replied. “She died five years ago."
“You know I didn't mean to choose—"
She spun, eyes like
