“It’s just this contest. I won’t win, so don’t worry. Actually, I’m not even sure I’ll turn in a piece after all.”
April blinks. In the moonlight, her skin looks grayscale, almost like a statue. The kind of marble that can be made to look soft, but only after years of painstaking work. One stroke of the chisel at a time.
“Okay,” she says finally. Then she leads me to a mannequin. Her fingers hesitate over the drape. “It’s unfinished.”
“There’s still much to do.”
I’m not an appreciator of fine arts. Frankly, I never had the time. And fashion—I don’t understand it at all. I just buy whatever’s expensive enough, anonymous enough, to get me through a day of pretending to be someone I’m not: a respectable CEO, a self-made billionaire. Sheep’s clothing for the wolf within.
But even I can’t
