(Rosalie's POV)
The words left my mouth, and a wave of regret washed over me instantly.
I looked at Alexander Hawthorne standing there, framed by the dusty shelves of the studio. His Tom Ford three-piece suit was a masterpiece of tailoring, the fabric absorbing the light in that way only incredibly expensive wool does. It stood in violent contrast to the buckets of gray slip and the splattered floor.
Men like Alexander-the apex predators of New York's old money-didn't touch clay. They sat in VIP boxes at Christie's or Sotheby's, raising numbered paddles with manicured hands. They didn't get under their fingernails dirty. Even Lucian, who came from far humbler beginnings, had sneered at this place. He called it "messy creative labor," something beneath the dignity of a CEO's partner.
*W
