The digital clock on Vivian’s temporary desk read 1:14 AM.

The penthouse suite she had rented overlooking Central Park was dead silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of her Montblanc pen against the mahogany surface. Spread before her under the sharp glow of a brass reading lamp was a forty-page c

The flashes of the paparazzi's cameras were blinding, a relentless strobe light storm that turned the red carpet into a battlefield.

Vivian stood at the edge of the velvet ropes outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was the epicenter of

The morning after the gala, the fallout was absolute.

Vivian’s single word—*Yes*—had detonated across the fashion world like a seismic charge. Francine’s exclusive piece in *Vogue* had gone live at midnight, and by sunrise, #TheGhostOfLocke was the number one trending topic globally. Vivian’s phon