Liam's POV
The fabric samples had been spread across the worktable since seven.
By eleven I'd moved three of them and left the rest exactly where they were.
Marco, my head designer, stood on the other side of the table waiting for me to say something useful. I could feel him waiting. He had that particular stillness of a man who'd learned not to rush me — arms folded, one finger tapping once against his sleeve before stopping himself.
"The ivory," I said.
"Which ivory?"
"The one on the left."
He picked it up and held it toward the light. "It photographs cold."
"Then we shoot it warm."
He set it down without arguing. That was the thing about Marco — he pushed exactly once and then let it go. I'd hired him for that specifically.
"The Milano shipment clears customs Friday," he said,
