The night of the final runway was a spectacle of controlled hysteria. The venue was an old Parisian bank, its cavernous marble hall transformed into a sleek, futuristic runway. The air crackled, thick with the scent of expensive perfume and quiet desperation. Seated in the front row, I was a coiled spring of readiness. Beside me, Arthur was an island of calm, his presence a silent, grounding force. We weren’t here to hope; we were here to execute.
The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the audience—a congregation of the fashion world’s apex predators. Editors, buyers, critics, and influencers, all with their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones, ready to pass judgment.
J&C was scheduled to show first. The irony was not lost on me. Julian would have his moment, his grand pronoun
