The design studio hummed like a living thing. Machines purred in the background, scissors whispered against fabric, and the air carried the faint scent of starch and ambition. Rolls of silk and satin lined the long table, each draped in color—deep emerald, smoke-gray, midnight blue. The walls were plastered with sketches, pinned in careful precision.
Clara stood at the center of it all, a pencil between her fingers and resolve in her chest.
She’d been up most of the night—sketching, reworking, doubting, redrawing. Now, as the morning light filtered through the tall windows, painting the room in gold and shadow, she tried to steady her hands. Today was the review. The day her work would either speak for her or be quietly dismissed.
Her reflection in the polished glass door looked calm. B
