The days following Paris were not a whirlwind of celebration, but a period of quiet, methodical construction. The chaos of Julian's implosion was a distant storm, its thunder muffled by the soundproofed walls of the Sterling Tower. I did not watch the news, nor did I read the salacious industry blogs that were undoubtedly feasting on the carcass of Vance Atelier. My focus was singular: the birth of something new from the ashes of the old.
My new office, a sprawling corner suite with panoramic views of Central Park, was a landscape of whiteboards, fabric swatches, and architectural blueprints. It was a war room, but one where the weapons were charcoal pencils and bolts of silk. Alexander was a constant, steady presence, not as a savior, but as a partner. We moved in a synchronized orbit, o
