The pre-week gala was held at the Musée Rodin. Marble gods and tormented lovers watched us from their pedestals, their silent, sculpted drama a fitting backdrop for the living, breathing version unfolding around us. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and ambition. I navigated the sea of air-kisses and whispered gossip, Hélène Arnault a formidable shield at my side. My name was on everyone’s lips. *Clara Reinsdorf.* The unknown variable. The woman who had come from nowhere to helm the resurrection of Vaudet, backed by the full, terrifying might of LVMH.
They looked at me with a mixture of curiosity, envy, and a healthy dose of suspicion. I was a story, a commodity, and they were all waiting to see if my value would rise or fall. I felt the weight of their collective gaze, a physica
