The scent of lavender and cold steel filled Isla Merrick’s new studio.Morning light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing bolts of fabric in golden hues and brushing across sketches pinned along the wall like battle strategies. The quiet hum of a playlist played low in the background, a rhythm she barely registered. Her fingers moved with instinct now—elegant, precise, relentless.It was barely past dawn, but she was already at work—a tablet in one hand, coffee in the other. Her gaze darted between the illuminated screen and the mannequin in front of her, dressed in half-draped silk like a statue waiting to come alive.Around her, the studio pulsed with possibility.Rolls of rich fabric lay unspooled like banners before war. Needles glinted in their cases. Thread spools gleamed like trophies. This wasn’t just preparation.It was her reclamation.Her fashion house—ASHLINE—was on the edge of something seismic. In less than a week, it would debut its first private collectio
Last Updated : 2025-07-11 Read more