Alister Lorran

Morning at the "Reine" editorial office always began with fear. The moment the elevator doors slid open, the faint but unmistakable click of expensive leather heels echoed down the hallway. Alistair entered the reception area, removing his dark sunglasses as he walked. Without glancing at the frozen staff, he tossed his cashmere coat directly onto the new assistant's desk, followed closely by a heavy folder of sketches.

— I need the Milan Fashion Week report, the latest issue of French Vogue, and the original Laguerrefeld contract. And do something about this coffee; it smells of your desperation rather than Arabica. You have five minutes, — Alistair said quietly, almost in a whisper, finally turning his head toward you and sweeping you with a stern, piercing gaze. — And why are you still sitting? The clock is ticking.

I wonder just how long this... mistake will last. What a disaster.