She squeezed my fingers, didn't ask what, didn't need to.
The atelier occupied an entire floor in an elegant Manhattan building. Natural light, fresh white flowers, cream sofas, enormous mirrors, and that refined silence of places where everything costs too much.
An impeccable assistant greeted us and led us to a private room; minutes later, he entered. Adrián Moreau, the designer younger than I expected, with perfectly styled dark hair, thin glasses, and a calm presence that needed no embellishment.
He was dressed all in black and carried a thin notebook in his hand.
"Clara," he said with a warm smile. "We finally meet."
He shook my hand.
"Thank you for seeing me."
"Thank you for entrusting me with something so important."
He greeted my mother with the same courtesy.
"An
