Lucian
The numbers looked good. Better than good, actually.
But behind the figures, behind the thin smiles and the forced champagne toasts, something kept crawling under my skin like a splinter.
Eloise.
It was laughable, really. After everything, she was still clawing her way back,quietly, subtly. I knew she’d never launch another line under her name again. Too much shame, too much baggage. But her signature? That part of her that bled into every jewel she ever crafted? It was unmistakable.
And now it was back.
Not in the form of precious stones or sleek gold bands, but in rawer, unpredictable fabrics, draped and chaotic, almost like grief woven into silk.
I caught wind of the buzz through a fashion scout over lunch. He was sipping gin and muttering about some underground designer w
