Milan smelled like espresso, ambition, and perfume worth more than rent.
Backstage at Fashion Week, Mia Solis stood barefoot on the concrete floor of the preparation hall, arms crossed, jaw set. Around her, models were zipped into brass-feathered gowns, seamstresses dashed with last-minute pins, and camera crews hovered like hornets.
Her debut collection—**Phoenix Reborn**—was minutes from the runway.
Lucien approached, hands in pockets, his dark suit sharp against the chaos.
He didn't speak. Just stood beside her, letting the moment settle.
“I can't feel my legs," she admitted.
He smiled. “That's just legacy knocking."
She laughed despite herself. “What if they hate it?"
“They won't."
“You sound sure."
“I saw you survive worse than reviews, Mia."
She nodded once. “Then let's bu
