CLAIRE
We got out of the car and walked toward the entrance together. Julian held the door open for me and I stepped inside, my folder clutched tightly in my hands.
The lobby was modern and minimalist, with samples of fabric hanging on one wall and photographs of finished garments on another. A receptionist greeted us with a warm smile.
"You must be Claire," she said. "Nina's expecting you. Third floor, studio B."
We took the elevator up and found the studio easily, a large open space filled with cutting tables, dress forms, and shelves of fabric in every color imaginable. A woman in her mid-forties stood near one of the tables, examining a piece of silk. She had dark hair pulled back in a low bun and sharp, intelligent eyes that looked up as we entered.
"You must be Claire," she said
