The morning sun was relentless over Manhattan, slicing through the glass façade of Zaria's studio as if by sentence. Ethan had caught a glimpse of the place in photos—magazine spreads, fashion catalogues, even an architecture website that called it "industrial chic with a pulse." Nothing prepared him for the real thing.
It had once been a garment factory, its red brick walls unpainted, all its imperfections and cracks telling of the past. Skylights flooded the whole area with silver-white light, from the rolls of surplus Italian silk lying about everywhere to the giant stacks of half-made clothes. The air had a hint of starch, coffee, and dreams.
Ethan stepped inside cautiously, his polished oxfords silent against the worn hardwood floors. Zaria was at the far end, bent over a cutting ta
