The invitation was a declaration of war. And the atelier was her armory. The decision, once made, had been a conflagration. The ice of her fear had not melted; it had flash-frozen, becoming a new, harder, sharper substance. Ambition. The two years of hiding were over. The next three months were a blur of focused, feverish, 18-hour days. The Maison AVA, the dusty, echoing storefront, was transformed. The front windows were blacked out with heavy paper, turning the sunlit room into a secret, nocturnal cavern, lit only by the harsh, brilliant, white-blue glare of design lamps. Elias was her shield. He was the public face, the "President," a role he played with a new, invigorated theatricality. He handled the logistics of the Fédération. He booked the venue, a small, atmospheric hôtel particulier that would cost a fortune. He hired the models, the lighting, the press, all under his own legendary, resurrected name. He handled the world, so that she, the ghost, could handle the work.
Last Updated : 2025-12-23 Read more