The attempt on my digital fortress came just before dawn. It was a clumsy, brutal assault, not the work of a subtle master but of a desperate man who had paid for a battering ram. My security team at LVMH, a group of quiet geniuses who treated cyber-attacks like a particularly engaging form of chess, neutralized it within minutes. They sent me a concise report: the breach was repelled, the source IP masked but bearing the digital fingerprints of a known freelance hacker-for-hire based in Eastern Europe. The attack vector had been aimed squarely at the Vaudet Spring/Summer master files.
I read the report over a cup of black coffee, watching the first grey light of morning bleed over the Parisian rooftops. I felt no fear, only a profound, chilling certainty. The cornered animal was lashing
