Serena Rosette
The studio was alive with energy—students moving between workstations, models adjusting outfits, and teams engaged in last-minute discussions. The hum of sewing machines filled the air, blending with the murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter, and the rustling of fabric. It was the kind of chaos that came before something great, the nervous excitement that hung in the air like static before a storm.
Sitting across from Austin, I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head at his dramatic sigh. His stories always had a way of drawing people in, spinning the mundane into something absurdly entertaining.
“You’re seriously telling me your model bailed last minute?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I sipped my coffee.
Austin groaned, throwing his hands up in frustration.
