The victory at the gala was a cold, quiet thing. It wasn’t a triumphant explosion but the silent, satisfying click of a well-oiled machine falling into place. The after-party photos of Serena’s disintegrating gown had gone viral in the circles that mattered. The whispers had become a roar. My diagnosis had been proven correct, and in the world of couture, a flawed execution is a more mortal sin than a lack of inspiration.
I felt a sliver of peace, but it was the peace of a soldier in the moments between battles. I knew Julian. He wasn't a strategist; he was a brawler. Humiliation would not make him retreat. It would make him swing wilder, harder, with no regard for collateral damage.
The attack came the next morning, less than thirty-six hours before my show was scheduled to begin. It wa
