The boutique was still. Not silent, exactly, but quiet in the way that followed a storm. A thick, heavy quiet. Like the walls remembered everything that had been said, every click of a camera lens, every question that was asked with a smile but meant to cut deep. The press had left late, long after the sun dipped behind the neighboring buildings, but even now their energy still clung to the room like perfume that wouldn’t lift.

I hadn’t slept properly yet.

I’d drifted into a restless, ...