POV: Siena Blake

Every battlefield has its own sound.

In Weston, it wasn’t the sound of bullets, sirens, or screaming soldiers. It wasn’t the roar of tanks or the clash of metal. No, here, in the high-rise towers of the fashion elite, war sounded very different. It was the quiet click of stilettos on polished marble floors. It was the gentle rustle of designer silk as women turned their heads with smiles that looked sweet but felt dangerous. It was the soft, fake laughter behind bone-china coffee mugs, passed around boardroom tables by people who wore ambition like perfume—subtle at first, but the longer you stayed near it, the harder...