The sky over Manhattan bled into a deep, bruised violet as evening descended on the city.
Inside Zara's Upper East Side penthouse, the atmosphere was a stark, jarring contrast to the militaristic tension of the forty-second floor.
The air smelled of jasmine candles and expensive, catered Italian food. Low, rhythmic jazz played softly from hidden speakers.
Zara sat cross-legged on the plush Persian rug in the center of the living room, surrounded by a chaotic, beautiful explosion of fabric swatches, charcoal sketches, and heavy legal binders. She wore a simple, oversized white button-down shirt that belonged to Ryan, the cuffs rolled up to her elbows.
Her hair fell in loose, natural waves around her shoulders.
She was building Osei Maison. She had spent the last ten hours on the phone with textile manufacturers in Milan and independent boutique distributors in SoHo.
