Sunlight filtered through the warehouse windows of Nathalie's new loft studio, scattering across bolts of fabric, pencil sketches, and pinned inspiration boards.
She moved like someone reborn—tape measure around her neck, fingers dusted with chalk, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Her bruises had faded.
The fire inside her hadn't.
Daniel entered, holding two coffees.
“Someone's been up since dawn," he said.
“I had a vision at 4 a.m.," Nathalie replied, brushing past him with a swatch of deep plum velvet. “Midnight drape with metal trim. Armor, but elegant."
He set the coffee beside her sewing machine. “Let me guess: hand-sewn talon accents?"
“Exactly."
Daniel smirked. “I should charge you consulting fees."
“You're getting paid in exposure," she said, mock-serious.
“In that case, I'
