The paper trembled in my grip as if caught in a draft, though the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Laurent Atelier were sealed tight against the New York winter.
"Gabriel."
The voice did not belong to Isabelle. It was light, melodic, and laden with the smooth confidence of someone who had never known what it meant to bleed for a living. Camille Arden stood in the doorway of my private studio, draped in a coat of spun cashmere from my Autumn collection. Nine months ago, that face had seemed like an oasis in the suffocating desert of my ambition—a creature untouched by the gray, grinding memories of my impoverished youth. Now, looking at her was like staring into a mirror that showed only my own vanity.
"The board is waiting," Camille said, stepping into the room. Her heels made no sound on the silk Persian rug—a rug Isabelle had selected when we bought this building. "The merger with the Vance Consortium needs your signature before the market opens. Why are you staring at that paper again?"
