The morning of the broadcast, the sky didn’t try to perform. It hung gray over Manhattan, flat and undecorated, like a ceiling without texture. The city moved beneath it, sharp as ever, but quieter than usual—at least to me. Maybe because I knew what was coming. Maybe because this time, I wasn’t stepping into a storm. I was the one about to release it.

We had cleared the boutique the night before. Every mannequin had been moved to the back. The racks had been covered. Fabric bolts ...