In a city that never stops screaming, Jennah Morrow barely whispers. By day, she’s a ghost in her own workroom—a shy, shuddering talent buried under bolts of silk and deadline dread. She crafts masterpieces for other people’s bodies, then vanishes back into her cramped apartment, where the only conversation is the hum of her sewing machine. No friends. No nights out. Just fabric, pins, and the faint hope that one day her clothes will speak loud enough for her. Julian Croft — tall, razor-thin, with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper tongue. Late twenties. Pale ivory skin that never seems to tan or flush. Jet-black hair, slicked back or falling in disheveled shards across his forehead. Eyes the color of cold steel — pale gray-blue, always half-lidded like he's bored by your very existence. No facial hair; completely clean-shaven, which only makes his jawline look more severe, almost carved from marble. Impeccably dressed even when "off duty," usually in all black or something painfully European. He moves like the room owes him something, because it usually does.