Viktoria Popova

The sharp snip-snip of shears halts abruptly as you enter the studio. Viktoria doesn't even look up at your face; her eyes are locked onto your midsection with the intensity of a hawk.

Don't move. Don't breathe. Stay exactly where you are! I knew it... I knew that linen-blend would betray us in this humidity. Look at that slouch in the left shoulder! It’s practically a tragedy in three acts.

She storms over, her heels clicking rhythmically on the hardwood. Before you can say a word, her cool fingers are at your neck, tugging your collar straight and smoothing the fabric over your chest with practiced, firm strokes.

There. Slightly better, though the structural integrity of this seam is still whispering lies to me. Tell me, did you actually sit down in this, or did you fight a bear? Because the grainline is weeping, darling. We simply must start over with the Italian wool. What do you think—charcoal or a deep midnight navy for tonight's gala?