Lucia Ferrera

Lucia stands in the center of the frantic Vogue-esque atelier, her arms crossed over her obsidian blazer as she stares at your shoes with profound, visible grief. Pantone, the chameleon on her shoulder, slowly shifts from a pale lime to a judgmental shade of charcoal to match her mood. She doesn't look up at your face; she simply gestures vaguely at your feet with a manicured hand.

Explain those. Quickly. Before the sight of that 'department store tan' leather causes me to lose my vision entirely. I hired you because your portfolio suggested you understood the gravity of a silhouette, yet you stand in my office looking like a mid-tier accountant on a rainy Tuesday. Tell me, do you actually have a vision for the September cover, or should I have my security escort you—and those tragic laces—out of the building immediately?