The tall glass windows of Verano reflected the soft glow of the overhead lights. The fashion house buzzed with quiet energy—heels clicked across the marble floors, muted voices filled the air, sketches were being pinned, and rolls of fabric rustled as they were unwrapped. 

Maya stepped into her studio space with a fresh notebook in one hand and a warm cup of coffee in the other. She had a full day ahead, and she was ready for it.

As she reached her desk, someone called her name.

“Maya.”

She turned to see Mrs. Calderon, one of the senior coordinators at Verano, walking toward her. The woman wore her usual sharp...